


Who is Anthony Jay Crowley?

by Gwindolyn



Category: Good Omens, Good Omens (Book) - Fandom, Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Hamlet (play), Hamlet references, Human!Crowley, M/M, OC/Crowley - Freeform, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2020-07-19 14:21:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 28,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19975504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwindolyn/pseuds/Gwindolyn
Summary: Anthony J. Crowley has amnesia but he's muddling through."They’d kept him over night at the hospital. He felt strongly that this was because he’d failed current history pop quiz they’d given him. He couldn’t remember the year for example. When he’d woken with a hellish headache he’d startled a laugh out of the no-nonse Nurse by proclaiming it to be the fourteenth century."





	1. What's in a name?

Anthony Jay Crowley. That’s what it said on the hospital records. There was something a little off about it. Something that, in this moment, he couldn’t put his finger on. Which felt unfair. Surely,  _ surely _ if you couldn’t remember a thing you’d at least remember the ins and out of your own name. Amnesia, apparently, was not that kind. 

The hospital staff had printed it out for him - his name - for safekeeping. Well, they’d printed it out on a little sticky label and sealed  _ that _ to the plastic bottle of pain pills they’d given him. Right now he clutched the little bottle and waited in the greying drizzle for his car to arrive. 

They’d kept him over night at the hospital. He felt strongly that this was because he’d failed current history pop quiz they’d given him. He couldn’t remember the year for example. When he’d woken with a hellish headache he’d startled a laugh out of the no-nonse Nurse by proclaiming it to be the fourteenth century. 

“You’ve got your humour in tack, that’s a positive. Though I’ll need you to take the questions seriously from now on.” 

It took him three more stabs in the dark before he got the right century. He couldn’t tell her the current prime minister or monarch, his current address or his own birthday and he certainly couldn’t tell her who his emergency contact was. 

This last one was the other reason, unbeknownst to Anthony, they’d kept him over night. No-nonse Nurse Catherine wasn’t the sort to leave loose ends. She’d spent the night trawling the internet and the phonebook looking for a Crowley relative. The little she did found wasn’t all that illuminating. His mother, Lucie, seemed to be underground, while the father was nowhere on record. 

She let Anthony go through his own wallet. 

Out came half stamped loyalty cards, ID cards, credit cards, a new looking library card and enough small change to ruin any bus driver’s day. Other than that Anthony Crowley’s wallet was uniquely unhelpful. It could be the wallet of any number of young men who dressed the way he did; slick, modern and unattached. 

So the mystery of A. J. Crowley remained. Ultimately it proved to be beyond Catherine and her busy schedule. She’d had to make do with ordering the young man a cab and asking, as if it might prompt his memory, if there was anyone - anyone - he could ring? Then he took the cab to the home address she’d found for him and she went back to work. You couldn’t save them all. 

*******

Now Anthony stood outside the door of the apartment cursing long and loud. He cursed until his headache came back and he found he had to sit down against the cool dark corridor wall. He’d forgotten his keys. Perhaps the keys were still in the ignition of his burnt out wreck of a car? He had no way of knowing. He didn’t feel he was the type of person to forget his keys. But then what did he know about that, really? Another thought crept in, convincing in it’s insidiousness, that perhaps this wasn’t his flat at all. He had nowhere else to go. 

That thought, more than the headache, flattened him to the floor. Now with his frustration having flared and burnt out he found himself growing cold. That couldn’t be good. His twenty-four hour hospital experience had got into his empty head. It seemed to be drawing his attention back to his physical body more than was his idea of the idea of normal. “Buck up Hamlet.” he told himself and set about looking for a spare key. There wasn’t a spare but he found something better. Anthony had remembered he was the kind of person who enjoyed Shakespeare. That was a thought to hang onto. 

Anthony was battering at the door - hoping to kick in the lock - when the Night Manager rushed up asking if he’d had a little too much to drink. He asked it in such away that suggested Anthony’s recycling bin was often filled with wine bottles. 

“Locked out. I was trying to bust in the door, yanno, like James Bond.” 

The pop culture reference was out of his mouth before he registered the words. Shakespeare and James Bond! He was eclectic  _ and _ patriotic. Interesting. The portly, middle-aged Night Manager turned out to be both helpful and comforting. Helpful in lending Anthony a spare key, comforting in away that Anthony couldn’t put his finger on. Perhaps it was just that after the day he’d had a friendly face was a real welcome.

*******

The apartment had fewer books than he’d expected from the kind of person he thought he might be. Certainly not from the kind of person who read Shakespeare for fun and quoted it to themselves in times of stress. And he’d have liked a few more books around, it’d have been comforting. He searched the cupboards for cocoa but could only find rich, dark coffee. His cool, minimal apartment that he’d spent blood, sweat and tears getting into wasn’t at all what he’d hoped for. It was getting less comforting each second he stood in it. 

He went for a glass of water only to find the tap wouldn’t run. Infact, none of the amenities worked. The television wasn’t plugged in and the heating wouldn’t turn on. He went to bed early not daring to check if the lights worked. There Anthony piled every blanket he owned onto the large bed and went to sleep in a nest of pillows and blankets. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first ever fanfiction anywhere of any kind. So let's see how this goes. :)


	2. Speak again, bright Angel!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley has amnesia - but he's dealing with it just fine. It's fine!
> 
> "There was a contact saved under “Angel” that even had emojis. It looked promising, more than promising. It took Anthony willpower he didn’t know he had not to ring it the second he stumbled across it."

Dawn woke Anthony. Apparently the person he was didn’t believe in curtains. 

Did this mean he was an obnoxiously early riser? The kind of person who only kept kale smoothies in their fridge and took instagram seriously? Or did he usually slept through the sunlight? A night owl who ate nothing but takeout and watched art house films alone? It was exhausting, he realised, asking yourself these basic questions every couple minutes.

But not nearly as exhausting as the good three and a half hours he spent on the phone with the internet people. Trying to convince them that his house was on the map was a Herculean task in and of itself. Try as they might the little voice of the end of the line couldn’t find his old account under any variant of his name. With or without the “Jay.” So then it was all “Let’s set you up a new account” and “Will you be signing on for the full two years?” and “Are you giving us your soul now or on layby?”

*******

Anthony got the internet up and running early; before the water and just after the electricity. This was partly because the kind of person Anthony suspected he might be was a millennial. But it was also so he could do the equally millennial thing of googling himself. It came up blank. No facebook. No instagram. Nothing.

He started slamming increasingly wacky things into google. But no, he didn’t have a twitter called Snakey-boi or The-King-of-Queen or anything. Maybe the no-nonsense Nurse had been wrong. Perhaps he didn’t have a sense of humour after all. Anthony thought he might like snakes though, he didn’t have any specific evidence, it just a gut feeling. 

So the next day he hung the phone up violently on the car insurance person and stalked off to the zoo. There he pressed himself up against the glass of the reptile exhibit like he was recreating that scene from Harry Potter and stared down at the serpents. He locked eyes with one snake who stared back at him unblinkingly for the longest time. On his way out Anthony made a generous donation to the reptile house. 

Anthony found he couldn’t stay in the flat long. He still needed to sort out the last of amenities but that was only half the issue. Frankly the stark loneliness of the place depressed him. He couldn’t see how he’d ever spent much time in it before. Perhaps a sentimental attachment to things he could no longer remember or understand. 

So he took his fancy laptop to a nearby cafe to pinch their wifi while making one cup of black coffee last indefinitely. He changed his desktop background to a selfie with the snake and set to work. Anthony trawled the laptop like his own personal stalker. Every file, every photo, every password he could find. When organised on a single word doc it filled less than ten pages. Was he a technophobe? It was so spartan he wondered if the laptop was brand new. He checked the brand. It was top of the range and claimed to download everything from the cloud. He wondered fleetingly about calling the company to complain as they’d clearly lost his backups. But he knew it’d be self inflicted torture so dismissed the idea. 

*******

Anthony went to the hospital for a check up that Friday. There wasn’t much more they could tell him. Other than specifying he had retrograde amnesia, suggest he keep away from alcohol and remind him to wear a seatbelt. On his way out the specialist tried to lighten to mood with a misplaced joke. 

“It’s just like the movies.” said the white coated man, spinning in his chair. 

“What is?” 

“Amnesia of any kind doesn’t usually turn you into a blank slate, that’s just how they do it in the movies.”

If he’d hoped to make Anthony feel like a movie hero he’d failed.  But it did lead Anthony to an odd evening of trawling Netflix for films about amnesia. A worrying number of them turned out to be rom-coms. On his final check up the same specialist recommended a counsellor. 

“I’m not depressed.” said Anthony blankly. 

“It’d be a difficult time for anyone. Put the number in your phone, in case.” Then the man sat quietly watching to make sure Anthony did just that. In all fairness the specialist had righted his personal cosmic balance in equalising out bad humour with good advice. Anthony, however, sauntered out of his office with an affected devil-may-care attitude to his every fiber. 

Anthony wasn’t going to tell anyone, certainly not unfunny doctors, that he didn’t have any friends. Just because he didn’t remember any of them didn’t mean they weren’t out there. However as the days turned into weeks Anthony had to admit to himself that they couldn’t be terribly good friends. No one else had the excuse of a brain altering car-crashes after all. 

Much later that night and several bottles of wine in he gave his mobile the same stalker like treatment he’d given his laptop. There was a contact saved under “Angel” that even had emojis. It looked promising, more than promising. It took Anthony willpower he didn’t know he had not to ring it the second he stumbled across it. It wouldn’t be a good look to ring anyone, even a forgiving partner, at three am mid week. Besides he’d have to admit to trawling through his mobile phone hoping to spark a memory. Then he’d have to admit to being lonely enough do it. 

Judging by his apartment alone Anthony knew the person he’d been pre-crash was infinitely cooler than the person he felt like now. That suave, cool person was the one Angel knew. He didn’t want to let them down. One other thing Anthony was learning about himself was that he had an excellent imagination. Excellent at coming up with all sorts of dangerous possibilities about who “Angel” might be. A void leaves room for every possibility. It creates the worst possible outcome for a pessimist and the perfection for an optimist. In his heart Anthony had always been an optimist. Thoughts about Angel kept him up past dawn. 

*******

Anthony misted his plants with care the next morning or mid afternoon as it turned out to be. Then he carefully, deliberately called every other person in his contact list before ringing the Angel. If Anthony had been a pessimist he might have called that number first and ripped off the metaphorical band-aid.  Instead, he saved it till last, like a silver sliver of hope.  He needed hope to get through every small piece of rejection his  contact list offered him.  There seemed to be no real people saved on his phone. It was all dud numbers and restaurants. And one very angry Scotsman who was rather insistent about his retirement. Anthony hung up when the man began pestering him about his nipples. 

Then Anthony ordered himself a fortifying curry and called the Angel. 

A stuffy voice message informed him that his Angel was a second hand bookshop for which the visiting hours were so vague he had to call a second time to get them on paper. The voice also informs him there is no point leaving a message after the tone. It had looked so promising. What else could the sword and fire emojis be but one great innuendo? Apparently whoever Anthony had been before the car-cash had a hard on for Shakespeare. There was nothing to do but go to sleep and not get out of bed until his curry, uneaten had well and truly congealed past being edible. 

On the third day he rose, dressed and went out to join a book club. If he was going to be a better version of himself this new Anthony needed backup. In short he needed to make some friends. Apparently he'd failed at this his whole miserable life. But that wouldn’t stop him now. He was young, after all. Still somewhere in his thirties if his birth certificate was anything to go by and it was everything to go by right now. 


	3. Too early seen unknown, and known too late!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthony doesn't know where he's been or where he's going. So he's going to try out some new things. 
> 
> "That is how Anthony found himself sitting in line for an audition, absently-mindedly folding and unfolding his script. He didn’t know if he’d ever acted but he felt it to be intrinsically in his wheelhouse. It appealed."

In his bookshop in Soho a man - well, man-shaped entity - was reading a book. He’d been reading for several days non stop and had lost track of time around chapter fourteen. It was the sort of thing he did with regularity. As he had nowhere pressing to be he could put off doing all the normal human things like sleeping and eating and paying taxes for as long as he wanted. Of course being of Angel stock meant he would stop reading for one of those. It wasn’t even the one with the possibility of crepes. He took another sip of his coco and turned the page. 

*******

With nothing else to fill his schedule, not even a part-time job, Anthony was the most dedicated book club member that the local library ever had. You wouldn’t have picked it with his dark glasses and his aesthetic that verged on gothic but there he was 2:55pm every Friday for a month. 

So when another librarian was quizzing Phyllis-who-ran-bookclub, about potential people to help with this year’s amateur Shakespeare, Anthony was top of the list. Top of the list with the caveat, or footnote, that he could be “A little sarcastic. But he’s a sweet boy underneath the leather jacket. And very reliable.” And besides Anthony liked Shakespeare. Loved it. Couldn’t remember a word of it. But that life wasn’t it? You loved from the heart not the head. 

That is how Anthony found himself sitting in line for an audition, absently-mindedly folding and unfolding his script. He didn’t know if he’d ever acted but he felt it to be intrinsically in his wheelhouse. It appealed. Better yet his first look through the script felt familiar like so few things did these days. As people in the waiting room chattered someone leaned over to talk to him.

“Might be a bit of an ask...but do you want to run lines?”

Dark hair and eyes, she had a mix of actor-ish confidence and youthful ungainliness. A possible Ophelia he reckoned. Glancing over the lines he began the nunnery scene. Prior to arriving at the audition Anthony had been asked to prepare a speech. Any speech as long as it was Shakespearean. Clearly the Ophelias’ had been given this scene to read. 

Anthony felt his confidence with every word. More confidence than he had alone in his flat. Perhaps he’d been struggling with the iambic pentameter in his monologue. The scene however was a conversation and it flowed like one. Perhaps having another person to spark off helped too. He was just thinking he could learn to love this when his Ophelia cut him off. 

“They’re not doing it in OP.” She was looking at him...what was that look? She seemed impressed despite her reprimand.

“Which what?”

“The directors - this production - it’s in RP not OP.”

He gaped at the theatre jargon. 

“OP?”

She gave him a sarcastic, teasing look that on a better day he would’ve rivalled. When he didn’t rise to the banter bait a puzzled look came into her eyes. 

“What you were just doing. You were doing the script in OP - in original pronunciation - like how Shakespeare would’ve done it. You’re good.”

“It’s just how the words came out.”

“Seriously? I wish that happened for me.” She could see the look on his face was quite sincerely baffled. “How can you not remember what OP stands for but still remember to drop all those consonants and lean into those vowels?”

He shifted in his seat. 

“Hey, I’m impressed. I really am.” She hadn’t wanted to upset him but there it was. “They're not the Globe though. They’re not going to ask you to be fancy with it.”

So Anthony smiled sardonically and he told her about his amnesia. She was the first person he’d confessed it to who wasn’t a sales person mid argument on the other end of a telephone. 

After that their practicing lines got somewhat sidetracked. By the time she was called into audition Anthony found himself wishing her a genuine “Break a leg” that couldn’t in so few words express what he was really feeling. The feeling was much more specific. But it wasn’t something to say to a near stranger. For instance he couldn’t say: 

“Please get a role but mostly if I also get a role. I think we could be good friends. I’m certainly not in touch enough with my own feelings to verbalise any of this. Even if I was I wouldn’t because I think I’m meant to be cool. Anyway, what’s your name? I’ve been calling you Ophelia in my head. I’m Anthony. Break a leg!” 

She was gone before he could say anything, even the useful bits of this internal monologue, out loud. Instead Anthony read his lines over one more time, just for luck and waited for his name to be called. 

  
  


*******

The man-shaped Angel gently set his book down and checked his pocket watch. There was one thing other than taxes that he’d stop reading for. Not a thing actually, a person. And that person was late for their lunch date. 

The telephone rang out in the Crowley’s flat. One reason he kept an old-fashioned voicemail and landline was so the Angel could ring him. Mobile phones being altogether much too modern. The phone rang out in the emptiness, at long last going dead. The Angel did not leave a message. He assumed that when he was wanted he’d be called. Or that his friend would simply saunter into his shop with a flippant excuse. After all, if he hadn’t heard from Crowley in a few weeks or even months there wasn’t anything unusual in it. He once slept through nearly a century. 

The Angel returned to his book with a sigh that in a less angelic being could have been an exasperated one. But it was a good book with several lovely sequels, as much as books on prophecy had sequels. So he didn’t stop reading for another six days. 


	4. Cast thy nighted colour off.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley doesn't remember anything magical in his life, including Azriaphale. 
> 
> "He hesitated and now everyone, the actors, the stage manager and the lone costumier lurking in the corner were all waiting for the big reveal. And Anita was impatient. So with careful fingers Anthony drew off his shades."

It was a good several weeks into rehearsal when the Director - Anita - at last insisted Anthony take off his sunglasses. He’d been muttering excuses about his poor eyesight for weeks. Excuses he intrinsically felt had worked - until now. Anita spelt it out plain and simple. If he wasn’t going to bring in legitimate proof in the form of a doctor’s certificate then he wasn’t wearing sunglasses in her rehearsal room a moment longer. 

Anthony wore his sunglasses as if they were part of him, to the point where most days he forgot he was wearing them. On those rare occasions he wasn’t wearing glasses he’d find himself adjusting them. Only to find them missing ike the twitch of a phantom limb. 

The cast from - Hamlet to young Osric - were sitting in a drama circle. This was the moment that Antia, with steel in her voice, told Anthony to hand the sunglasses over. And sure, Anthony didn’t usually think about his glasses. But a feeling was rising up in him, insisting that if he peeked out from behind the shades he’d be found out. It was an unfounded feeling he couldn’t put into words. But essentially was the exact opposite feeling to not being aware of his glasses. And it was hitting him like a ton of bricks. 

This must be what people call “impostor syndrome” he thought wildly. He hesitated and now everyone, the actors, the stage manager and the lone costumier lurking in the corner were all waiting for the big reveal. And Anita was impatient. So with careful fingers Anthony drew off his shades. He was inexplicably shaken by the whole thing. 

*******

Afterward the ordeal he all but hyperventilated alone in the dressing room. Teresa let herself in with a gentle knock. 

Teresa “for-goodness-sake-call-me-Teri” was playing Ophelia. He’d pegged her for the role the moment they’d met. And even though they didn’t look at anything alike - opposites all the way - he’d been cast as her brother. He was thin, all angles, in contrast she was chubby and curvy. She was dark, he was pale. He was an amateur while they both knew she could have a spot in Hollywood if the system hadn’t made her want to revolt. 

She slid into the seat next to him.

“Iwas’ jus' having a nap.” he said convincingly enough to stretch the lie into a yawn. 

“You have really great eyes. Yunno if it helps?”

He’d caught a glance at himself in the big dressing room mirror. His eyes, boring brown, were heading towards bloodshot. 

Just behind him he could see Teresa pull her bag onto her lap. She began to rummage through the debris of a full and busy life. Yoga pants, astrology essay, a diary bulging with notes, one stray mandarin and - 

“Ah there’s the bugger!” 

Anthony turned to see Teresa holding out a little red flash drive.

“It’s pretty much my whole itunes library. Man cannot listen to Queen alone it doesn’t matter how many bangers they’ve got.”

Anthony took the gift without quip or complaint. Perhaps that was out of character. And perhaps that worried her because Teri leaned into him. She draped one arm over his shoulders like a personal human blanket. 

“Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay.”

“It’s not.”

“You’re not playing Hamlet, remember? That’s Cass. Cute, blonde, my future wife remember?”

A giggle got trapped in his throat half way up. “I wasn’t like this yesterday.” he could hear the whine in his voice and cut himself off immediately.

“There’s nothing good nor bad but thinking makes it so.” a Hamlet quote that in the original context sounded bleak but Teresa, bless her, managed to inject with optimism. 

“Now who’s Hamlet?” he was sniffling. When had his nose decided to run when his eyes watered? It certainly hadn’t been his idea. 

“There’s going to be good days and bad days, buddy, that’s all.”

He leaned into the hug and stayed there for the longest time. Anthony wasn’t sure what he was missing but he felt it might be this. 

Later that night Anthony plugged in Teri’s flash drive and played whatever songs came up. He drifted off to sleep with the lyrics to Pale Blue Eyes and the sound of the Velvet Underground. “Bebop” his sleepy brain supplied. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a shortish chapter this time, but a longer one is on it's way!


	5. Fortune’s fool!

Anthony hadn’t much curiosity about the make and model of the car he’d crashed until the insurance company rang to tell him it was practically impossible to replace. After that he’d been too curious not to go to the garage for a look. It had been a good car. Now it was a beat up, burnt out husk of a once beautiful Bentley. He didn’t stay long. It hurt to see something like that, a car with real character, in what was essentially the morgue for motor vehicles. 

Then Anthony moved on to the scene of the crime some corner in Soho where he’d crashed. It didn’t spark any memories but that was unsurprising. The only conventional thing about his amnesia was that he didn’t remember the moment of impact. Still he stood there, on the corner, mourning the car. Mourning his own memories too, maybe a little. 

He’d heard from someone, somewhere, somehow that if you were lost in a city that you didn’t know, the best way to get un-lost was take every left turn. Walking in a grid helped map the area or something while helping you remember where you’d been. It might have been his brain running anxious overtime but Anthony felt he had begun to attract attention. After all he’d been standing on a street corner, not crossing, not leaving and looking like he was attending a funeral. He adjusted his sunglasses, picked a direction and set off. 

It didn’t take him long to get lost. Like most cities London isn’t a perfect grid. And the whole left and left again thing becomes trickier to follow when you’re faced with roundabouts and one way streets. To top it off some corner of his brain was hoping to kickstart his memories with a few choice landmarks. It was distracting, trying to spot landmarks when you don’t even know the shape of the idea of what you were after. Anthony ducked into a shop at midday and by the time they’d heated his panini he’d forgotten which direction he arrived in. 

*******

Though he’d have no way of knowing it Anthony ended up less than a block from where he started. At this point he gave up searching and walked into the nearest bookshop. As far as he didn’t remember he loved books and bookshops were a sanctuary not to be scoffed at. This was immediately substantiated and Anthony felt his foul mood lifted slightly as he was greeted by the friendliest of all shop assistants. 

When people ask “How are you?” they’re not actually asking for the load down. It’s just part of the set script that’ll hopefully lead to the fun middle bit of a conversation. Or help ride out an unwanted conversation with minimal effort. But when this man, smiling beautifuically, asked “How are you?” his earnestness overroad that script. Anthony was grateful for the dark glasses that hid whatever embarrassingly warm expression had come into his eyes. He stuttered out a casual reply. 

“Oh same old, same old, you know...it’s been...a _time_. Not the end of the world, though.”

The man chuckled. “It’s certainly not that.” 

Anthony drummed his fingers on the counter top. “You don’t have a copy of Hamlet do you?” 

“Yes! Of course, first folio, second folio, that one Thomas scribbled down at the time.”

“A folio is a little out of my price range.”

The shopkeeper smirked at this and hurried into the backroom chattering about having a recent publication somewhere. The copy he found didn’t look recent. It had that musty unread book smell and a somewhat seventies cover. 

A quick flick through and Anthony didn’t see a price tag in any of the usual places. Nevertheless he placed the book on the counter and reached confidently for his wallet. The shop assistant seemed oblivious to these slight but obvious indicators that he was ready to make the usual book-for-money transaction. Instead the shop assistant flitted about still chattering about this and that. 

“What do I owe you?” 

The question was met with a blank look that melted into a smile. 

“Oh very ha-ha. Just bring it back when you’re done.”

“Thankssss?” 

And he meant it. But he was sure no one had ever thanked the friendly shop assistant before because he flushed a funny colour and waved the compliment away. 

“No need for...it’s nothing. Well, it’s not a bottle of holy water is it? Why the sudden interest in Hamlet?”

Anthony had to suppose that he mustn’t look terribly bookish. Though he had thought or hoped that he looked like a man who read Hamlet. 

“I’ve been meaning to give it a re-read.”

“I didn’t know you’d read it before. Or do you mean see it? I feel blasphemous but one should always see theatre even if one has it in print. Wilde taught me that.”

“Hm. You’re the expert. Well, I should go. Thank you.” 

The shop assistant looked a little taken aback, even crestfallen. 

“Sure you don’t want to stay for lunch, my dear? I have a very nice bottle of wine out back.”

It was so flippant, so confident and such an eager a question that Anthony froze. The man had been flirting with him the whole time and Anthony stupidly, stubbornly failed to noticed. He quickly summoned all his social skills and found they failed him. 

“No, no I’ve got to be off. Lots of Hamlet to read.” Then because his brain was catching up with his mouth. “Thank you though. It’s a nice thought.”

“Nice?” 

“I guess? Yeah? Thank you.”

“No, thank you, Crowley.”

Anthony hoped whatever this odd exchange was would lighten the mood because he liked the bookshop. He didn’t want to embarrass himself to the point he couldn’t come back. When Anthony paused on the threshold he could almost feel the other man’s face light up hopefully.

“When do you want me to bring it back?” He had to ask. Part of him was yelling to just walk out, that he’d got away with something. He waved the book for emphasis. 

“Oh any old time.” 

“Cool. Cool-cool.” 

And he left. 

As Anthony walked down the street, shaking off the residual nerves, he could feel his face blossom into a smile. Sure the guy wasn’t really his type - he was a bit older for one - but Anthony chose not to be too self-reflective about it. He’d been asked out! And that was nice.

He should’ve got the man’s number when he’d had the chance. Why the hell hadn’t he?


	6. Tempt not a desperate man.

Despite not going back to the bookshop and despite his life being in shambles Anthony found himself happy. Since the frank and friendly shop assistant at A.Z. Fell and Co. had asked him boldly to lunch Anthony had reconnected with his own optimism. He’d felt more than a little sexy all day. Rehearsal that night was a dream. Anthony was carrying around a little spark of joy and it was infectious. Afterwards the Director, Anita, took him aside and thanked him for boosting morale. 

Anita even went as far as asking him to understudy. She did so while making it clear that he wasn’t the best actor in the cast but with his knack for lines and his team spirit he was someone she could trust with the extra responsibility. This heady mix of insults and compliments was part of her personal style and in his current mood he didn’t fault her for it. 

*******

It was Friday so the whole cast was on for drinks and karaoke. And it was karaoke with a group of actors, so there was bound to be a group rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody. People leapt in to sing the bits they remembered at the top of their lungs. Everyone knew enough Queen to get by. But no one knew it like Anthony. 

He knew every word to every Queen song on the list and more. He wowed the crowd with his rendition of “Don’t stop me now.” But not exactly being the triple threat his singing was accompanied by some truly terrible dance moves. Teresa laughed at him. Then she and Nell where up on stage a moment later, dancing with him like a sixties back up singers. 

Overall Anthony was a lot happier. He had a nagging feeling that this was the happiest he’d ever been. He loved the theatre, loved the instant bubbling connections with people. The throw yourself head over heels into new friendships thing theses actors had going on. Perhaps in the past he’d had no one to call save restaurants and bookshops. These days he had all sorts of conversations, banter, tispy talks, whispering in the wings. He’d have liked the deep, rambling conversations you could have with an old friend. But he only had new friends and was making do. 

As Anthony stepped down from the stage to cheers and laughter of his peers he wondered if the real performance, when it came to it, could possibly give him a greater thrill. Mo who played Horatio and Asha who played Rosencrantz - or was it Guildenstern? - were coming over to hug him. Then Mo was offering him a drink and he was sitting in a circle of friends. No, he thought, it was going to get better than this. 

The night began to dissolve in a wave of booze and chatter and song. Then with very little encouragement the dancing began. The mob of actors took over the dance floor. It wasn’t good dancing per say but it was enthusiastic in a way that just about made up for it. Then there was the inevitable moment on the wrong side of several pints of beer where they busted out the Elizabethan dance moves from Act One. Anthony sat on the sidelines keeping an eye of everyone’s coats and clapping more or less in time to the pop song playing through vibrating speakers. 

It would’ve been a surprise to anyone who’d see Anthony’s strut but he wasn’t in the dance sequence. He’d been cut from it early in rehearsals when Anita realised she’d have to sign him up for a year of dance classes to get any sort of a result. This night there was a general call for Anthony to join in. Shouts of “Anthony, hurry up.” and “It’s easy to learn.” But it was Mo who disentangled himself from the dance floor, pulled Anthony from his seat and tipsily taught him the moves. 

“Left foot, left foot!”

“I’ve two left feet, that’s the problem!” Anthony had bumped shoulders with Mo again. It was like he couldn’t get his hips to stop swinging long enough to remind his feet what to do. 

“You’re doing this on purpose, I swear to God.” said Mo, white teeth flashing in the dark. 

“Don’t bother her about it.”

*******

Many drinks later Anthony was entertaining the mob of actors with his theories on eternity.

“...so the bird flies back to the mountain. Peck, peck, peck. Then it flies back. No it’s the baby bird that comes back. Does it wear out its beak? It wears out the mountain? Strong beak…do you see what I mean?” 

His eyes refocused and realised Teresa, Cassie, Nell and the rest had drifted off some time ago caught up in their own conversations or returned to dancing. Jameela who played Queen Gertrude was singing a Beatles song. Mo was the only one left listening. 

“So that’s eternity.” Anthony said, summarizing quickly to put an end to the topic. 

“You’re a bit of a freak aren’t you?” Mo was looking at him, tipsy and bright eyed. “Here I was thinking it might all be bravado and skinny jeans.” There was a grin behind the words.

*******

Anthony turned from ordering a bottle of wine to find Teri at his elbow. She was watching him over the rim of her glass with a look that’s dancing at the edges of judgemental. Anthony gestures with the bottle of apple wine. 

“Me and Mo are sharing.”

“Okay…” the look hasn’t gone away. 

“Do you want in?” He poured himself a drink right there at the bar. 

She shrugged. The gestures telling him he’d missed the mark somehow. 

“What are you and Mo talking about?”

“All sorts. Ian McKellen. Eternity. Ah...Mo wanted gardening tips.”

Anthony took a cautious, fortifying sip of his wine. Teri grabbing a water before getting to the point. 

“And how’s the temptation going?”

“It’s not...it’s banter...he fancies me?”

“You’re very fanciable.” she stated it like it’s something they both know and she’s not about to hand him the compliment he was clearly fishing for. 

Anthony was caught between denying all responsibility “I’m not doing it on purpose!” and claiming the cool points. But Mo doesn’t fancy him and he doesn’t fancy Mo no harm no foul. 

Unfortunately Teri had locked eyes with him and she didn’t let go. Anthony was not used to such prolonged eye contact without the safety of his sunglasses. A foggy memory knocked on the window of his mind - of throwing the shades to his audience while singing “I wanna make a supersonic man outta you!”

Anthony looked towards the crowd raucous dancers. Cass and Jameela had started up a the Elizabethan moves again. It’s all legs and leaping. They’re were attempting to drag strangers in to join them. There was a crowd of patrons between Mo and Anthony. Cover enough for Anthony to look, really properly look at the man he’d been talking to all evening. Mo is a stocky man in his thirties with bright brown eyes, dark tightly curled hair and a full beard. He was sitting patiently at their little shared table for Anthony’s return. Not exactly bucking the trend in terms of fashion he’d dressed neatly and comfortably, his pale pink shirt unbuttoned at the collar. A good look on him. 

“Do us all a favour and break the news to him one way or another.” Teri gathered his attention back to her. “Look, Anthony. I don’t want to play the whole “big sister” card. But Mo, he’s family to me. Don’t mess him around.”

“I not...I won’t.”

“Because if it came to it, if you break his heart, I’ll never talk to you again. Got it?”

Her honesty was altogether as refreshing it was terrifying.

"I'm not here to break hearts." he said to be cool. But there must have been some quality she was looking for in his answer, some incidental honesty because she gave him an encouraging smile. 

“I like you Anthony.”

She then ordered a pilsner, gave him a half hug - between her pint and his wine it was a risk as is - and melted back into the crowd. Anthony was left at the bar, alone. He drained his glass and made a Big Decision. 

*******

Anthony sidled back to Mo and began pouring the wine. 

“How come you’re on the Ian McKellen buzz?” it seemed like a safe enough question when the rest of this brain was singing for him to go on and kiss the girl to the tune of something Disney. 

Mo lit up. “I was listening to a podcast...a conversation with Ian McKellen were he said he liked acting, but didn’t think he’d make a career out of it. He joined the theatre because that’s where the gays hung out.”

Anthony slid a drink across the table towards Mo. The red wine sloshed but didn’t spill, though it was a near thing. 

“I must’ve missed the memo on the serious podcasts.” Anthony took another calming sip of booze. The Disney song hadn’t stop. If anything it was louder. 

“I wouldn’t call it ‘serious listening’ McKellen joined joined the theatre to meet cute boys. And I’ve never related to the guy more.”

Well, that’ll do it. Anthony needed to change to topic quickly because if he didn’t he was going to start making Big Decisions without thinking about them. He’s always been good at this, asking the interesting questions and not knowing what to do with the answers. 

So he gave the obvious unaffectionate compliment. “You’re a good Horatio.” 

“You’re a cool Laertes.” 

“I mean...the more I get to know you. You’re a good friend, like Horatio.” 

“Thanks, yeah. It’s, um, friends. Good.” Mo looked into the depths of his drink. Anthony found himself no longer the focus of that warm gaze. 

“Yeah…I didn’t have many before the show. Friends that is.” 

“Really?” 

“I was a right wanker. I think.”

Mo leaned back in his chair, squinting theatrically at Anthony. “Can’t see it.” there was a smile twitching at his lips. 

Anthony leant into the self-deprecating rant. “I was! I was all flash car and sunglasses. All, I only drink black coffee, it’s dark and bitter like my soul. I’m not lying - you should see my apartment!”

“Yeah?” There was another question hiding behind the casual one. 

Anthony wanted to draw it out. “Yeah.” 

“Like now?”  
  
This gave Anthony pause. Mo was soft and nice and Anthony didn’t want to ruin the potential for friendship between them. He didn’t want to make a Big Decision when his body was seventy percent alcohol. In that moment he desperately wanted something more than the bright fizzing friendships he’d already surrounded himself with. He couldn’t look away from Mo’s charmingly bright eyes. Mo grinned sweetly, sharply, warmly and in Anthony want verses want warred. Behind them Cassie and Teri cleared the dance floor with an unrehearsed waltz. 

It was Anthony’s turn to make a move. So he stood, breaking the spell between them. He spared a glance for Teresa. There wasn’t a thing that’d would drag her from Cass in that moment. Mo was still smiling up at him, a little softer now, a little shy. 

“Yeah let’s go now. Right now.” said Anthony as he gave into temptation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The podcast Mo mentions is a real thing. It's called "David Tennant does a Podcast with..." it's the Ian McKellen episode. There is also the most delightful episode with Michael Sheen.


	7. Palm to palm.

Mo doesn’t see Anthony’s apartment that night. 

They hadn’t yet made it a full block down the street when Anthony was overcome with the teenager-ish desperation to kiss and be kissed. He steered them both under a shop awning and pressed his body, shoulder to hip, against Mo’s. He grinned into his friend’s face and wasn’t sure who kissed who first. He found the beard a new but unwelcome experience. Two blocks later Anthony vomited into the gutter.

Between the alcohol and amnesia Anthony felt he couldn’t be expected to remember his own address. Not that he said none of this to Mo. He simply looked dazed and let himself be led in the right direction. So it was Mo called the cab and Mo’s house they drove to. 

*******

Mo helps him stumble up the stairs. And once Anthony is safely ensconced in a cushy armchair he hands him a huge plastic bottle of water and sits with Anthony while he drinks it. 

“Big night for you then?” Mo asks.  
  
“Nahhh. It’s usually…” he snaps his fingers “Poof and it’s gone. No hangovers for Anthony J. Crowley.” His mouth is talking ahead of his brain but it makes Mo laugh. 

Anthony holds out the water bottle. “Want some?”

“I’m sorted.” Mo raises a cup of coffee in a handmade mug. Anthony leans in and clinks their beverages together. 

“Clink.” he says when the plastic fails to make a satisfyingly appropriate sound. 

“What’s the J stand for?”

“Is’ ju’ a J really. What’s the Mo short for? Mortimer? Morty? Montague?” he finds himself prattling on, hoping Mo will laugh again. 

“Moses.”

“ _That_ guy. A good dude except for the plaugessss. Weren’t really his fault.” Anthony has managed to drape himself all over the armchair Moses propped him up in. “Religious?” 

“Not any more. I’ve always wanted to settle down and start a family. My folks were happy for me until they figured out who with.”

“Where is he now?” Anthony has his vices but kissing other people’s husbands has never been on the list. 

“Too much family friction. It didn’t last the distance...and fair enough I was a mess...at the time.” He shrugs, resigned. “Just be grateful your family aren’t religious types.”

“Oh they are. Had a big falling out, for sure.” 

“Over a boy?”

“Over everything. I like to ask questions. It doesn’t make me popular with the old matriarch.”

“Still go to church?”

“Just the once. I had a snappy suit on. I’ve hung onto the religion a bit though, just the cool stuff.”

Anthony only had vague memories to this affect but he felt certain in what he was saying. The suit he remembered well. What he was doing in the church he couldn’t say. And he could remember losing that relationship with his mother. At least he remembered being loved and losing that love. 

*******

Mo lends him the use of his bedroom. Anthony shrugs off his jacket, kicks off his shoes and flops onto the bed. The pillow smells unusual. It probably smells like Mo. He wonders what Mo smells like and buries his face further in the pillow hoping to get a proper sniff. 

“Anthony?” Mo is sitting next to him on the bed. Anthony looks up blearly. It’s a movement that’s all neck. His limbs have already taken leave for the night, packed up and gone to sleep. 

“Remember to take your glasses off.” 

Anthony smiles and tries to shake the them off his face. It’s a losing battle. The glasses which had been rather abandoned earlier in the evening, have despite all odds clung on through the vomiting. They’re sure as Hell aren’t giving up now. He must look like a right git because it’s this that makes Mo laugh. So Anthony does it again, shaking his head with more vigour. His head swims and his glasses rattle in protest. 

“Let me.” then Mo’s leaning in to slip the glasses from his face and Anthony’s head swims for an entirely different reason. 

“Hey, Mose?” 

Moses turns from the bedside cabinet where he’s safely setting the glasses down. Anthony leans into to sloppily kiss him. For a moment Mo kisses him back. Then he’s leaning back and saying stupid things with his lovely mouth. 

“I’m just...not tonight, we’re drunk.”

“You’re not that drunk.”

“I’ll just be on the couch if you need me. There’s your water by the bed.”

Anthony tries to catch his wrist, he just about makes it too, but he’s left clinging to Moses sleeve. 

“Don’t make me into the wanker here Mo.” He tugs at the sleeve. “I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed. And I’m not trying to seduce you, promise, I promise.”

*******

Once they’re lying in the dark together Anthony snuggles in close. He excuses himself by recounting the number of drinks he had that night. 

“Your feet are freezing.”

“Warm them for me then.”

“ _Anthony…_ ” Mo says warningly. 

“Just two friends. Snuggling. Platonically.” and he sticks his cold feet between Mo’s warm ones. They lie in the dark a moment, listening to each other’s breathing, the silence stretched between them. Then Anthony pulls Moses arm over him like a blanket Mo lets him do it. 

Anthony falls to sleep like this, with no way of knowing that Mo doesn’t fall asleep for a while longer. Instead he stares up at his dark ceiling, the warmth of another body pressed against his side, one of Anthony’s legs having tangled between his somehow. Mo feels one part guilty, three parts lucky. He combs Anthony’s hair back from his face, he’s tipsy after all, and falls at last to sleep. 

*******

Anthony wakes with a headache. It’s the kind of hangover that lies dormant, tricks you into thinking everything is fine, then unleashes itself the moment you stand up. Mo has seemingly disappeared. Anthony slouches grumpy and confused around the house until he finds the note attached to the fridge. 

Anthony, 

You make a good platonic spoon. I had to leave for a 6am start at the bakery. Help yourself to breakfast foods. I’ll see you at rehearsal. 

Mo :) 

P.S. The aspirin on the bench is for you!

It was the kind of note laboured over to seem casual. It answered all Anthony’s questions about the night before without seeming to do it intentionally. It was enough to make anyone fall just a little in love with the man. 

Anthony slouches around the house some more, picking at his toast and jam waiting for the aspirin to kick in. He’s never been this drunk before. Reevaluating the assumption through a fog filled brain he realises he’s been this drunk, he’s just never been this hungover. Perhaps he’s the wrong side of twenty-five. Anthony retrieves his sunglasses from the bedside cabinet and irritably jams them onto his face. Then sprawled on the couch, one arm thrown dramatically over his eyes he accidentally falls to sleep in Mo’s living room. 

When Anthony wakes he is warm from the sun streaming low through the blinds. A stabbing panic cuts through the haze and he checks the time. It’s past midday hurtling towards mid afternoon. It’s lucky Mo isn’t home yet. Sitting up and finger combing his hair Anthony, panic subsiding, wonders vaguely if he should stick around. He could make them both dinner and apologise for being his drunken self the previous night. But he doesn’t want to come across clingy. And even if the gesture was welcome he doesn’t want Mo thinking he had nothing else on all day. He’s keen to reclaim his dignity as it is. Mo’s laptop sits a few feet from him, still logged onto his Facebook account. Anthony changes Mo’s profile picture of a grumpy looking panda bear and slinks away.


	8. Wisely and slow.

The thought of buying a brand new Bentley is intolerable to Anthony. Even on the off chance he could afford it. Because it’s not about the price tag or the style of the car, those are just indicators of Anthony’s excellent occasionally vintage taste. His Bentley had character and they’d clearly been through the wringer together. Even if he could find another Bentley or a Bentley-like replacement it simply wouldn’t cut it. It’s like past relationships he muses. You may have a type but you’re not looking for a like-for-like replacement. That’d be psychotic. You’re looking for something fresh, new and sexy. So too with motor vehicles. 

So Anthony goes looking for a motorbike. He begs Teresa to come with him. Teri owns her own motorbike. Anthony knows this because he’s seen her tempting Cass to go for a spin around the theatre car park. Cass had seemed wary of the bike at first, even fearful, which was somewhat ridiculous. They’d all seen her all but fight the pigeon that dared to disturb rehearsals the week before. Clearly she was a hard person to intimidate. But the ploy paid off. She clung to Teri’s waist the whole ride, snug up against her even at the gentle speed they were going. Privately Anthony felt this had been Teri’s whole angle from the beginning. Both women had gotten off the bike somewhat smug.

*******

In the second or third store they go into they are greeted by a stocky salesmen. One of those people who look like a rule breaker, tattoos all down his arms, a wild grey beard and even though he’s wearing a work appropriate shirt, he looks like he’d be more comfortable in a leather jacket. Apparently he has an anecdote for everything. And as he talks them through bike safety it becomes clear he is actually one of those people who’s seen enough shit go wrong to play by all the rules. Like some sort of deadly schoolteacher. It delights Teri and disappoints Anthony. 

In the end Anthony stops listening to Teri, the advice of the salesman and the logical bit of his brain. He chooses that bike with his heart. He chooses a bike he hopes will choose him back. It’s sleek and black with little highlights of fiery red. A modern engine with a vintage look. A bike that can fly down the motorway. That can cruise beyond the speed limit and still be ready to rev up. In all honestly it’s the sort of bike that probably shouldn’t be allowed on the road. Anthony chooses it after only half a days searching. It’s something of a whirlwind romance. 

Of course Anthony wants to take the bike for spin right away. Only to find his driver’s license is out of date and doesn’t extend to motorbikes anyway. Teri snatches his driver’s license from his hand for a closer inspection. It’s not just out of date, it’s certainly a fake. For starters the birth date given 1953. The photo is of Anthony but shows him wearing John Lennon style glasses and sporting a very seventies haircut. Not a fake, a joke. 

He sulks while Teri laughs at him. But once Teri stops laughing he books the driving lessons and buys a helmet under the shrewd, watchful eye of the salesman.

*******

Afterwards they take the bus to Teri’s flat. Anthony sits cross legged on the end of the bed and watches Teri pull things from her wardrobe. She’s meant to be helping her flatmates spring clean. 

“God I’ve so many dresses. I don’t wear any of them.”

She throws a green velvet frock onto the bed next to him, followed by a something with polka dots, followed by an assortment of shirts and jumpers. 

“Take whatever you want. The rest I’m donating, selling, wherever will take it off my hands.”

Anthony ignores anything too colourful and Teri has a lot of that. Bold, brash colours that should clash but that she tames into an outfit.

“Theatre rules, you can change in front of me, I don’t mind. But bathrooms’ down the hall if you want.” She shrugs, tossing an orange fluffy garment onto the bed with a sour expression. “I should become a minimalist like you.” 

He laughs, her room, her whole aesthetic, is comfortably cluttered. Anthony holds up the orange thing between thumb and forefinger unsure which way round goes. “You’ll have to give up your fairy light addiction.” An impossible request when her bedroom alone is decorated with enough fairy lights to cover half a dozen christmas trees. 

Discarding the orange something, he shifts through the growing pile, resurfacing with everything, black, grey and red. He takes Teri’s advice and changes right there, pulling a slinky black dress over his head. It’s sleeveless, mid calf and body hugging. He checks himself out in the long mirror. 

Teri looks him over approvingly. “Everyone should have a little black dress. You look hot as fuck my friend.”

Though he hasn’t worn a dress in ages, years, he feels comfortable. He gives a spin, loving the way he looks and he says so. Teri promptly dives back into the wardrobe lost for a moment among the bright fabrics. She reappears holding another dress. It’s not his usual black. Teri throws it to him. It’s a timeless cut in red velvet. When he puts it on it flares out a little at his waist, giving his figure more shape. The effect is wonderfully dramatic. 

“It’s got pockets.” Teri adds, and well, that seals the deal. 

He comes away from Teri’s spring clean with enough clothes to fill an entire wardrobe. And they’ve barely made a dent in Teri’s collection. He’s got a couple of particularly good pieces too. A flouncy black blouse in a sheer fabric, a pair of heels in almost his size and his two dresses. As well as several of skinning jeans that Teri describes as “motivational” before adding that she’s over that self-hating crap. 

*******

It’s barely 5 o’clock when Teri cracks open a bottle of wine. Her flat isn’t sophisticated enough for a wine rack she claims as pull the bottle of red from behind several pairs of shoes somewhere deep in her wardrobe. Materialising wine like that is a magic trick Anthony would dearly like to know how to do. They don’t even leave the bedroom to drink it. Instead they put on records, sift through clothes and dance around in outfits that range from fansionable to freaky. The wine bottle in passes back and forth. And then the weed. Anthony thinks for a moment that he might like something stronger than weed. Then a drag of thick smoke curls around this brain and he and Teri are giggling into her paisley bedspread. 

They may have made plans earlier in the evening to leave the house. But time moves thick and slow around them. The flat is warm. The company is good. They venture out once to the kitchen and raid the fridge. Anthony has never tasted anything as good as the two day old pasta he is now eating. Pesto might be the greatest of humanity's inventions. 

Teri has produced second bottle of wine from somewhere, and she is telling him about a social experiment. Thirty-six questions that can make someone fall in love with you. He’s telling her it’s bullshit and then somehow, even though it’s all bullshit, they’re trying the questions out on each other. One track just ended and “Find somebody to love” by Queen has started to play. Anthony wonders if he’s being haunted by the band. 

“Do you love me yet?” Teri teases. 

“Nope. Next question?”

“How about now?”

“Next question!” He falls back on the bed, laughing, world spinning pleasantly.

“How about Mo?”

“Mo loves you. He’s your little brother.” Never mind that Mo is older “Sweet Baby Brother” and “Tough Big Sister” is the Mo and Teri dynamic Anthony’s seen in action. And Teri is anything she’s a messy, do as I say not as I do, older sister type.

A silly, open mouthed grin forms on Anthony’s face. He’s mind in drifting...there’s something important about Mo in the back of his mind...let’s ring Mo, he thinks. That’d make the evening perfect. He sits up abruptly, deciding he should change into the little back dress and get rid of the mess he’s wearing. He’s using the orange fluffy thing as a hat. In untangling it he nearly misses Teri’s next question. 

“Do you fancy Mo?” 

His brain stalls. “Noooooo. No. Nope.”

“What about the other night.”

“Didn’t happen.”

He looks down at Teri. There’s a slow, puzzled expression on her face. He knows that if this were one of his rom-coms about amnesia then this would be the moment they’d kiss - because of heterosexuality. He doesn’t. Kissing a woman is for him about appealing as kissing a man would be for her. And now he’s thinking about kissing and kissing Mo. And it’s far from the first time his mind has got lost down that particular rabbit hole this week. 

He runs a hair through his hair, leaving it spiked, he’s vaguely planning to grow it out. “I thought there might be a thing with Mo. But I think as it turns out we’re both just gay.” There it is, the important thing his brain had been trying to remind him. 

Besides Mo doesn’t want to have sex with me, he thinks, to him I’m a repulsive reptile. So that’s that. Anthony lets out a long suffering sign and flops back onto the bed. He is strangely exhausted by it all. More invested in their nonexistent relationship now that the tiny spark of possibility has dimmed. He’s tried texting Mo. He’s sent selfies. But the response has been lukewarm. 

“Mo’s been polite enough about the...” he gestures vaguely “...the mix up. He’s been really friendly.  _ Niiiicce _ .” The words come out like nasty swears. 

Any plans he had of casually bumping into Mo at rehearsals have gone up in smoke. They’ve recently moved past group rehearsals to sculpting individual scenes. So the chance of running into Mo “accidentally” and casually having a conversation have grown suddenly scarce. Never before has he contemplated how very few scenes Laertes shares with Horatio. If he wants to use rehearsal time to seduce Mo it’s going to be over his own death scene. Very sexy, he thinks, sarcastically. 

As such the selfies got more and more provocative throughout the week. And that has gotten a response. But more often than not it’s photos of Mo at the bakery. Friendly. Not sexy. If that’s the guy’s respond to him shirtless in leather pants, well, perhaps he isn’t worth pursuing. 

He’s in half a mind to say all this to Teri, who might have insight into Mo’s mind, when the door flies open. Teri’s flatmate Ian is in the doorway, irate, huffing about Teri being a no show for the flat spring clean. Then he sees what they’re eating he nearly blows his top. They’ve stolen his precious pasta. In retrospect it’s a funny story to tell people next rehearsal but it puts an abrupt end to their relaxed evening. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished that chapter way quicker then I expected to! So expect another update ASAP. Thanks for all the support, you folks are fantastic. Xx


	9. Teach the torches to burn bright - Part One

In the end Anthony does wear glasses to the opening performance of Hamlet. Round, over-sized, costume dictated spectacles. There’s something in it about making clear Laertes is a university student and a foil to Hamlet. Or something. And while the glasses might not fit Anthony’s own interpretation of the character he doesn’t mind. He feels better for hiding behind the frames. 

Anthony is standing before the dressing room mirror making final adjustments to his hair. Laertes’ look is too straight-lace. There was the usual last minute rush to get the show from pack in to opening night. One of the last minute things had been his haircut. Anthony isn’t used to it yet. The costume designer gave him a short back and sides leaving very little hair to play with on top and the product he’s put in is doing nothing to help. As he runs worried fingers through his hair he can feel the loss of control chipping away at his confidence. In the mirror Anthony gives a grin, it’s all pale, flashing teeth. As an act of small rebellion he’s letting his hair grow out once the show ends. But that spark of anger isn’t going to get him into the right headspace to perform. Instead he might stab Cass for real in Act Five, all choreography forgotten. 

Though the symptoms are different in everyone, the pre-show jitters are working through the cast. Nobody is immune. Arriving at the theatre an hour earlier Anthony slipped into the neighbouring dressing room to check in on Mo. He’d planned for the usual “break a leg” banter not the good luck kiss Mo gave him squarely on the mouth. Before Anthony could ask what it all meant Mo had fairly bounded over to Teri, enveloped her in a bear hug and planted sloppy kisses all over her forehead. Which explained it all really. 

The problem is it’s a stranger looking back from the mirror. Even more a stranger than the one that joined local theatre out of loneliness. A young man in a white shirt, with a tidy suit and reading glasses. As he straightens the glasses the lenses catch the light. The effect for a moment is his eyes are invisible and the lenses glow gold in the warm dressing room light. He tries to repeat the effect. It takes him a couple goes. Then there it is, a flash of gold, a moment of calm in the whirlwind of nerves. He’s ready. 

*******

In and of itself the show goes well. There’s a few fluffed lines here and there but nothing noteworthy. And it’s an opening night crowd; ready to be impressed and looking for a good evening out. Anthony flies through his own lines a little fast, then a few scenes in he finds his rhythm. Needless to say he drinks in the applause. The theatre lights that shield him from seeing the audience don’t stop him from hearing the claps and cheers of praise. 

Then opening night _drinks_ are something else again. A mingling of the actors and crew with sponsors and the occasional relative. If Anthony can’t tell the difference between a sponsored compliment and a real one it doesn’t matter. It’s all going straight to his head along with the bubbly. So between the praise, the bubbly and with the adrenaline he’s on fire in the best way possible. He could stand on a table and sing. He could bloody well fly if he’d wanted to. He can certainly walk over to the attractive man at the food table. He’ll have a compliment ready by the time he’s snaked his way through the crowd. The man turns as Anthony reaches him. 

“You didn’t tell me you were acting in it, you cheeky devil.” beams the man for the bookshop. 

Anthony doesn’t have a witty compliment. He offers his best, a winded smile. 

“Anthony.” he says his hand out to shake. Because if you can’t be clever, be polite. The man waves away the gesture with sticky fingers, he’s holding a napkin full of finger food. 

“It’s Anthony now is it, my dear?” the man responds with a knowing smile. 

“Why did you come see the play, Mr…?” 

But the man is as inept at social cues as he is at selling books. He carries on the conversation like he hasn’t heard the question. 

“I always say it’s better to watch than read a play. But ah, I am one of the sponsors. It would’ve been churlish not attend.” 

And then it mostly makes sense. The way he’s talking Anthony thinks, it’s as if the show was all for him. Perhaps he had a hand in picking the play. Perhaps he’s sunk so much money into this project he basically brought the world’s most expensive ticket. Certainly he dresses oddly enough to indicate being a wealthy aristocrat muddling through the modern age. 

Still smiling the man continues “Now I must thank you for the wonderful performance in the time honoured way that all patrons have greeted great performers.” 

Mr. Bookshop Man gives a furtive look towards crowded room. He places his loaded napkin on the table behind him. For a moment Anthony has an excellent view of his round shoulders in his pale coat. As he turns to face Anthony he appears to reach into an inside pocket of his coat. He produces an impossibly large bouquet of green flowers, complete with a crisp white card, Anthony’s name scrawled across it. It’s a blink and you miss it moment. 

When Anthony tells people tomorrow that the man is an excellent magician he won’t be entirely wrong. The man from the book shop is both a magician and excellent at magic. There are however, fewer transferable skills between the two than one might imagine. And the trick he just performed isn’t something from the stage. Coming from Mr. Bookshop Man the gesture is sweet and old-fashioned and not a little extravagant. Anthony takes the flowers, charmed. 

“Shall I get us more of that excellent champagne?” the man asks, already tottering off under the assumption that Anthony will wait for him. That piece of overconfidence is definitely upper class. But he’s also right. Somewhat hampered by the flowers Anthony finds them a seat. A two seater couch in a quiet corner, far from the din and chatter of the rest of the room. There he waits. 


	10. Teach the torches to burn bright - Part Two

Earlier in the day Anthony had been nervous about wearing a dress to the opening night after party. Teri had convinced him with a little “Whenever else are you getting the chance to wear it?” and a lot more “You look hot as hell. Red is your colour.” He’s grateful now to have taken the advice. Mr. Bookshop Man joins him promptly proffering a glass. He’s got the two glasses in one hand and a bottle in the other. Anthony watches him pop the cork with a practiced ease and pour them both bubbly. 

“So tell me, how have you been?” he asks settling in close to Anthony. “Cheers.”

Their glasses clink formally together. 

“It’s been fine, yeah, fun. The show’s gone off with a bang.” 

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself up there.”

“Well, it’s Shakespeare, isn’t it? Lots of fun.” 

Mr. Bookshop Man blinks slowly in owlish surprise. Anthony expected more enthusiasm from the old scholar. He takes a sip of bubbly. The bar staff must have opened a fresh crate of something because what Anthony is drinking now is infinitely superior to whatever he’d been drinking earlier. 

“It’s Adam’s birthday next week. I was thinking I might go....” the man looks into Anthony’s eyes, hidden even now behind his shades and not finding the confirmation he’s after carries on. “It’d be odd to go alone. I was thinking I’d make an exception for your bad driving and we could go down together.”

“Together?” 

The comment about the driving stings, it’s incongruously cruel in light of his accident. Not that the Bookshop Man has anyway of knowing it. Nor is the possible insult Anthony’s most pressing concern. Still unsure if the man asking him on a date Anthony stalls. 

“I don’t have a car.” 

Mr. Bookshop Man’s lips twitch towards a smile before he sees the seriousness in Anthony’s face. 

“Oh,  _ Anthony _ . What happened?” there is real concern behind the question as if he knows the car was bought and totalled not never bought at all. 

It makes Anthony wonder if he’d given him the whole sob story when they first met. Then again he knows he didn’t. It’s not something he’s been telling just anybody. He hasn’t even told Moses. Though he has told Teri. And he’s used the excuse to skip queues several times “Excuse me, man with memory loss coming through.” Mr. Bookshop Man is waiting for a response from Anthony, who really doesn’t want to get into all that now. Not when there’s bubbly and better conversations to be had. 

“Adam? Adam who?”

“Adam, the Antichrist. The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this world, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness.” He rattles the list off like it’s something he’s learnt by rote. Then summarises “ _ That _ Adam. Adam Young.”

“What a nickname.”

The man shoots him a glance. “Well, if you don’t want to come.” he huffs and pouts. “Though frankly, I don’t see the point of going alone. He needs your demonic influence as much as my divine.” 

Which is when it clicks for Anthony. “Right. I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” he shifts in his seat trying to keep a smile on his face. Mistaken perhaps for an old school friend who shares all these elaborate in-jokes. It’s going to click for the other man too, any moment now he’s going to do a flushed-face double-take and leave. 

“Yes, I mistook you for someone who has an affinity with children.” Mr. Bookshop Man says cuttingly. “I mistook you for someone who once spent weeks organising an eleven year old’s birthday party when you could’ve been saving the world.”

“That’s quite the assumption. And we could all be doing more tree planting or whatever.”

And Adam is a child? Why was he being invited to a  _ child’s _ birthday party? Odd place for a first date. But then Mr. Bookshop Man is getting odder by the second. If it’s all a joke then Anthony has lost the thread of it long ago.  Or perhaps he is wrong and it’s not a case of mistaken identity. Clearly Mr. Bookshop Man doesn’t think so. Anthony looks out at the crowded room trying to collect his thoughts. Then again, he’d rather like to be wrong. Almost despite himself, it’s the man’s very oddities that have peaked his interest. 

Mo is standing amidst a circle of admirers, most likely his friends from the bakery. As if feeling Anthony’s eyes on him he turns. Even at ten paces the look he sends Anthony’s way clearly says “Is that bloke bothering you?” Anthony gives a smile and the tiniest of headshakes “I’m fine, thanks. You carry on.” 

Mr. Bookshop Man is sitting primly, sipping his champagne which despite his ruffled feathers, he’s clearly enjoying. Anthony could coaxed him back to talking about Hamlet, he wants to find a reason to keep chatting. Even though its duplicitous. Knowing the longer they talk the more evidence he’ll unearth that he isn’t who the Bookshop Man thinks he is. Its case of mistaken identity to rival a Shakespeaian comedy. And he’s setting himself up for a fall. Then again all comedies sort themselves out in the end. 

“I could go to Adam’s do.” 

“Really?” the man turns, smiling, his fluffy hair a halo. “That’d be lovely. He’d so appreciate having  _ both _ his godfathers there.”

Anthony makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. 

Not a chance anyone would name him a godfather. He drives a fast car and doesn’t do social commitments. Someone’s godfather is the type of person who’d have a personalised invite to a birthday party and be given time to buy an expensive gift. It’s a pity he wants a longer conversation with this wonderfully odd man whose name he still doesn’t know. 

Mr. Bookshop Man is still chattering brightly. 

“Oh, what do you say we go for a jaunt tomorrow and find him a birthday present? What is it young people like these days? A velocipede? Perhaps a fris-bee?” he breaks the word into parts like he’s never had to say it aloud before. 

Anthony smoothes the red velvet of his dress and brushes a nonexistent strand of hair from his face. Time to break the spell. 

“...or what are those football- ” 

“I was in your shop a couple months back. You loaned me a copy of Hamlet with the colourful cover? You probably don’t remember…” 

Mr. Bookshop Man is giving him a blank eyed look. Anthony nearly garbles the rest of what he’s saying in his hurry to get it out. 

“...so that’s me, that’s who I am. Don’t know an Adam I’m afraid, not one single Adam.”

Mr. Bookshop Man laughs a little nervously. 

“I’m Anthony. I missed your name? So, sorry. Brain like a....that the thing you put flour through.” 

The man puts his drink down with emphasis and finally does a double take. It’s the full once over with a slight frown creasing his brow. Anthony can see his own champagne flute shaking in his hand. He puts it down and laces his fingers on his lap to hide the unhappy tremor. The man hasn’t left. The intensity in the other man’s eyes isn’t dimming. Anthony wonders, wildly, if he’s about to be kissed because he can’t otherwise explain it. The Bookshop Man leans in, his hands hovering at the sides of Anthony’s glasses. Anthony’s breath hitches. 

“May I?” 

“Sieve! Brain like a sieve, that’s the word I was looking for.” he grins, teeth and sudden nerves. 

Mr. Bookshop Man, chasing the frown then a smile from his face, asks his question again. The way he’s asking it, a physical gesture more than a verbal question, is intimate. But this would be intimate either way. He is, quite clearly and very simply, asking Anthony to stop hiding for him. Anthony’s affirmative answer comes out in a soft breath. In a smooth motion the man slides the glasses from Anthony’s face. Then quite brazenly stares and stares, bright eyes locked on Anthony’s plain brown. Mouth becoming dry, Anthony wets his lips. It’s like the Bookshop Man has forgotten how to blink and it’s Anthony, close to blushing, who breaks eye contact first.

Anthony doesn’t know what happens next. The bubbly has gone to his head because his vision blurs and his mind goes blank. He must’ve blacked out for several seconds, for as he comes to his senses his mind is chasing away a very pleasant dream of a nameless, faceless friend. The man from the bookshop is simply gone. They’d been sitting, chatting happily. Though the last thing he remembers is Mr. Bookshop Man looking irritable. Irritable enough to snap his fingers in Anthony’s face. And Anthony is alone on the loveseat like Cinderella with nothing but a bouquet of green carnations to make him believe it all happened. That and a half-drunk glass of bubbly to show where the bright, odd man had been sitting, moments, seconds ago. 

*******

Anthony wanders aimlessly back towards the noise and energy of the rest of the party. He pours his drink into the nearest pot plant. Then stands in the flicking, dance lights and listens to the thumping music. The word “Bebop” drifts across his mind apropos of nothing. It is not even the first time it’s happened, like he’s picked up a mental tick. He wonders if that’s possible or just neurotic of him. He’s still clutching the flowers which need a vase before they wilt. There’s a headache building up behind his eyes. Shifting the flowers to the crook of his arm he shoves the glasses back onto his face. He doesn’t bother saying goodbye to anyone. It’s not one of his habits. It doesn’t occur to him other people might like to say goodbye. Only once he’s in the cool car park does he remember leaving his motorbike at home. It was in anticipation of getting thoroughly drunk on free alcohol. Those particularly ambitions now thwarted Anthony walks the flowers back to his flat, where they take pride of place on his living room coffee table. 

“Don’t be jealous.” he says aloud to his house plants because tired people talk to themselves like that and he’s not the exception. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovely humans -
> 
> I'm keen to keep writing this but have other commitments coming up. 
> 
> So! I'm going to work to a bit of a schedule. I'll be posting Thursdays for sure and Tuesdays if I can manage it. I didn't expect this story to become such a slow burn but you folks seem to be having a good time. And goodness I'm having fun too! 
> 
> Expect the new chapter Thursday 5th September EDT. 
> 
> All the best,  
> Gwindolyn xx


	11. What is yond gentleman?

The morning after opening night Anthony goes on a google hunt for Mr. Bookshop Man. It’s rather late in the morning and he’s propped up in bed with his laptop living up to its name. Anthony is suffering from a headache and trying to make his way through a very green smoothie. Healthy smoothies are not for him. He’s starting to think something fried will make a better hangover cure for the glass and a half that really shouldn't have got to him like this. 

He’d set his high hopes on the Bookshop having a website. Ideally with a list of the staff and helpful little headshots. Or perhaps some sort of newsletter he could sign up for, locating the Man via Shakespeare recommendations. Of course, the old fashioned bookstore doesn’t even show up on google maps. Eventually he stumbles into a reddit forum where the odd bookstore and the even odder man are discussed at great length. 

It’s apparent that the man runs and owns the bookstore, though there are hints another man spends a great deal of time there too. The rumours suggest he’s the only regular customer. Or a drug dealer, a boyfriend or a useless shop assistant. None of the stories can seem to agree. Someone suggests mafia, another person is insists he’s part snake, clearly no rumour is too absurd to be taken seriously. And Anthony might find this amusing except that he isn’t any closer to his goal. Mr. Bookshop Man’s real name remains a mystery. 

*******

On his way to the theatre that afternoon Anthony makes a deliberate detour past the Bookshop. There is no response to his rapid knock on the door. Anthony lingers out front for a time feeling that the moment he turns his back will be the moment the man comes to the door. He’s not far wrong. From the safety of an upstairs window the Bookshop Man watches him walk away. 

Anthony has to suffer all eyes on him as he arrives late to the theatre. Not to mention the cold disapproval of radiating off their director Anita. He already knows any excuse won’t be enough without a doctor’s note to validate it. He’ll have to buy the first round of Friday night drinks before he’s truly forgiven. As he joins the circle of actors as Anita hands out programmes. She sternly reminds them all if they lose it there’ll be no replacing it without cold hard cash. While everyone ohs and ahs over the contents Anthony looks up to see Mo’s eyes still on him. Moses looks away quickly enough that Anthony can’t name the look in his eyes. He only knows it isn’t a happy one. 

*******

In the dressing room Anthony finishes recounting the Bookshop Man gossip. Teri is putting on her makeup while he talks. Cass, already in full costume, sits on the table and listens in. He’s been telling it how all embarrassing anecdotes are told - like a joke. He skipped entirely over his moment of dizziness, long since having put it down the champagne. Considering the headache he’d contended with all morning it’s a fair assumption. The assumption that he and Mr. Bookshop Man haven't met before is less logical. It stems largely from his desperate feelings that he’s somehow embarrassed himself. When he replays the previous night’s conversation in his head it comes with a distracting veneer of shame that doesn’t allow for real clarity. Both his assumptions are, of course, wildly incorrect. He is even wrong about the nature of the headache. 

“...and it was pretty weird. He’d clearly mistaken me for someone with a nine to five. I dunno, yunno?”

In Teri’s mirror Anthony can see Costa and Mo come in and start gathering costumes from the rack. It’s time to wrap up the conversation or be in a rush getting ready. 

“He didn’t even give you his number.” mutters Teri. “The bastard.”

“Who’s this?” Mo is looking up from the racks, a tie in one hand, a shoe in the other. 

As Cass leaps in good-naturedly to fill Mo in on the details Anthony tries to be invisible in his seat. It’s not a conversation he wants Mo take part in but its a little late to be making meaningful eye contact with Teri or kicking Cass under the table. 

Cass doesn’t have to search for her own epithet for the Bookshop Man “Did you see him? The Waistcoat Dandy our Anthony was talking to last night.” 

The way she describes Mr. Bookshop Man with capital letters in her voice tells Anthony they’ve been the topic of cheerful gossip. It’s both flattering and disconcerting. Mostly he wants to what Teri and Cass have said to each other. 

“Fluffy haired fella.” Teri adds, picking through her purse in search of lipstick. 

“The old flame?” 

Anthony looks up stricken. “What do you mean?”

“The way you both were last night, snuggled up on the couch together...I just thought ‘Old Flame.’” Mo shrugs like he couldn’t care either way. 

“I thought that too.” adds Costa cheerfully from behind the clothes rack. 

And Costa might be the biggest gossip in the cast but he’s not often wrong about people. Anthony doesn’t answer. He sits in the slow dawning revelation that he’s missed all the clues. The familiarity, the flowers, _godfathers_. Old flame explains it all, which is a goddamn revelation Anthony was not prepared to have on an average evening in a public place. 

“Have I got wrong end of the stick?” says Mo looking from Teri to Cass to Anthony and back. 

Anthony shakes his head, less in answer to the question and more at his own density. A couple of months ago he was fully preoccupied with his memory loss. A ceaseless checking and double checking all the facts he knows about himself. Whenever he was introduced to someone he’d think “have we met before?” It’s still an insecurity of his. But it’s no longer his first thought in every conversation. He’s become so comfortable in his current life he’s stopped looking for his old one. It is a step forward that his doctor who have liked to see. And somehow this step forward has tripped him up. Mo is looking as if he’d like to interrogate the matter further. Then the Stage Manager in coming in to give the five minute call and there’s a rush to get ready. Amidst the chaos Anthony takes Teri aside. 

“The guy from the other night...the Dandy, I think Mo is right. I know him.” 

She glances over her shoulder at Moses. 

Then lowers her voice. “A bit of advice, bud. Chase this fantasy all you want but clear things up with Mo first, yeah?”

Teri gives him a restrained smile and disappears into the wings. As Anthony makes his way to the stage he catches Mo watching him again. And this time he can read the emotion behind the stare. Jealousy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All things going well the next chapter will be Wednesday 11th September EDT. Travel safe through the land of the interwebs until then xx


	12. He, that hath the steerage of my course, direct my sail!

In the cramped kitchenette at the back of the Bookstore, Aziraphale makes himself a cocoa with extra marshmallows, four pink, four white. Then settles himself in his comfiest armchair. It’s a burnt orange decorated with tiny green birds and very probably needs upholstering. He’s had for over a hundred years after all. But it was a gift from a friend and he’d rather not have it altered. 

Aziraphale sips his cocoa unhappily. He’s worried for Crowley. Aziraphale is always a little worried about his best, and if he’s honest, only friend. There was a euphoric post-Armageddon few days where he felt he’d never have anything to worry about ever again. Then life got underway and things returned to normal. And thank Somebody because Crowley and Azriaphale had taken on Heaven and Hell to maintain that very normalcy. But with normal life came the worries of the day to day. 

And now... _ now _ Crowley had shown up human. It was odder than Armageddon which had at least been on the cards for six thousand years. Aziraphale looks deep into his cocoa, stirring the melting marshmallows into a pink and white swirl. He is trying to puzzle out  _ how _ and  _ why _ Crowley’s transformation happened. And Aziraphale is smart. It is one of his three most apparent qualities. However he has very little information to go on. And even a clever Angel can’t be that clever. 

The first thing, Aziraphale reasons, is to find out who is responsible. If it was Heaven or Hell or Somebody forbid,  _ human _ interference. He scoops a spoonful of pink and white from the top of his drink. Crowley can’t tell him. Crowley barely remembers his own name. It’s as if his friend has been replaced with a poor replica.  A precious gemstone cut to a facsimile at first glance. Which on closer inspection refracts the light dully unable to recreate the details that made the original shine.  Aziraphale suppresses that train of thought. If idle speculation won’t get them anywhere then pangs of worry are truly useless. 

Aziraphale has to admit he’d panicked at the theatre foyer staring into Crowley’s brown human eyes. By the time he had Crowley’s glasses came off Aziraphale could tell something was seriously wrong.  He’d known Crowley couldn’t give the answers he wanted but he’d clicked his fingers anyway and tried to magic them out of him . He’d learnt very little that he didn’t already know or couldn’t discern. That Crowley was human. That he couldn’t remember being anything else. That he’d crashed the Bentley. That he lost his memories around about the same time. That Crowley didn’t remember Aziraphale. Not even his name. Nothing. 

Aziraphale puts down his cocoa with rather more force than he intended. Then overcome with the need for immediate action, however small, he rummages through the mess of papers on his desk. A list! He’ll start a record of everything he knows. Aziraphale returns to the haven of the friendly armchair with a chewed pencil and half filled notebook. When was the last time he’d seen Crowley?  At the Bookstore borrowing a copy of Hamlet? No, by that time it was this cursed-Crowley. His heart jolts sickeningly. Last time he’d seen the real-Crowley were mid-argument. 

For many millennia the looming threat of Heaven kept Aziraphale in the slow lane, head bowed, following orders, toeing the line. Once upon a time a worry-free afternoon came as a cast-iron excuse to see Crowley. Under the guise of fulfilling his heavenly duties, of course. Aziraphale became an expert at doing one thing and pretending it was the other. Seeing Crowley was always “thwarting wiles” and “knowing thy enemy.” “Saving the world” was the excuse he used to save Crowley. That last one he’d fooled himself with until rather recently. All in all, it was the kind of long-winded, round-a-bout thinking that does a person’s head in after a time. For Aziraphale it was more habitual than breathing. 

Once the threat of Heaven and Hell had been removed things returned to normal.  Dinners at the Ritz, picnics in the park, late night drinking, plenty of reading and once a blue moon selling a book. For the first time Azriaphale was able to consider if normal was enough for him. Like a bottle of bubbly gathering pressure for six thousand years he realised it wasn’t. The cork came out with a bang. Then followed a period where he threw himself into every vice he’d ever avoided. Drawing the line at foul language he’d diligently made his way through the seven sins. Looking back he realises the freedom may have gone to his head. 

Take, for example, the sin of gluttony. Well-versed as he was in that particular sin, Aziraphale had known, theoretically, that there was more than one way to commit it. At long last freed from the disapproving gaze of Heaven (and more specifically a disapproving Gabriel) Aziraphale took his indulgence to greater lengths than ever before. Gluttony can be broken into five components.  _ Laute _ ,  _ Studiose _ and  _ Nimis _ ; t he respective sins of eating to expensively, daintily and eating much too much.  _ Praepropere  _ the sin of snacking between meals. And  _ Ardenter _ which covered a multitude of smaller sins from the fervent anticipation of a meal to eating with a reverence better suited to prayer. Azriaphale used this as a meal plan. In this way he spent an entire fortnight at his favourite sushi restaurant sampling everything on offer  and few things they didn’t. Only leaving  to join Crowley at the Ritz where they proceeded to get drunk enough to rival Dionysus. 

Then came the other six. Pride,  avarice,  wrath, lust and envy he’d sampled them all with the same punctilious ardour. Azriaphale even found ways to indulge in the virtues, no longer worrying where they mixed with the sins. He gave charatabilty to a local library and took immeasurable pride in the plaque put up for him. No longer bound by the cosmic forces of good and evil, Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale gave into sins and virtues in a terribly human way. He had expected Crowley to do the same. 

He didn’t expect Crowley to dig his heels in and complain Aziraphale was being reckless. Crowley was craving stability. With a little hindsight Aziraphale could that he’d wanted business as normal in the wake of near disaster. But he hadn’t seen it at the time. So they’d argued. In fact they’d had several arguments, all dressed up as other things. Crowley made snide comments about Aziraphale’s new hat. Aziraphale badgered Crowley to join him dancing knowing Crowley had other plans.  Crowley refused to meet Aziraphale’s new friends. 

Then there'd been the Big Argument. Nothing to rival their near break up at the bandstand. But big enough. Crowley had called him a right selfish bastard. Among other things Aziraphale accused Crowley of being possessive. And Crowley had gone storming off. He’d raced away in his Bentley and Aziraphale hadn’t seen him until he showed up in the bookshop  months later looking for a copy of Hamlet. 

The Bookshop was still and silent save for the hurried scratching of Aziraphale’s pencil. His cocca had long since gone cold. Of course, he’d assumed that Crowley’s recent awkwardness meant they were still arguing, that he had not yet been forgiven.  Forgiveness of any kind had always been a struggle for the demon. So Aziraphale gave his friend the space he thought Crowley was all but asking for. He’d carried on under this assumption when Crowley missed their lunch date booked weeks in advance. It seemed a petty power move. But since neither of them was quite above that sort of thing Aziraphale practiced forgiveness and let it slide. 

And now, this distorted, human version of Crowley.  A selfish part of him breathes a sigh of relief b ecause he’d started to think  he’d really bollocksed it up between them this time.  Crowley was human. Car crashes didn’t do that to demons. There had to be a cure, there just had to. Like snakebites, like a cancer, Aziraphale would have to find the source of the trouble to find the cure. He very much doubted Crowley’s memories would come back of their own accord.

And until then he would…would what? Did he have emotional fortitude to maintain a friendship with a cursed-Crowley? Was it even necessary to befriend “Anthony” to keep an eye on him? Perhaps not. Perhaps he should keep his distance and live up to the title of “Guardian” Angel. Aziraphale reaches for his comforting cocoa. Or should he confess the whole plot to Anthony? The curse, the Armageddon, their past friendship, Angels and Demons. If Heaven or Hell come after Anthony wasn’t it better he knew why? But then what human would believe it? In his mind’s eye Aziraphale sees Anthony Crowley his face a mask of dislike and distrust. Crowley sneers in Aziraphale’s direction and walks from the shop never to be seen again. 

Should he intervene or not? That’s the big question. Aziraphale coughs on a sip of his stone cold cocoa. Intervene. Not intervene. He’ll search for a cure regardless. But should does Anthony need to know? Abandoning the cocoa altogether he prints the question in capital letters on a fresh page and underlines it twice. 

For a long moment he simply looks at what he’s written. Then for the second time in six thousand years the angel Aziraphale swears aloud. 

“Well, fuck.”


	13. Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs

Anthony has yet to see Mr. Bookshop Man again and it isn’t for want of effort. Every morning Anthony finds an excuse to saunter past the Bookstore. And every evening he combs the internet hunting for the man’s name. Several days of searching in this way have thrown up nothing useful. The show that night is a good one, a vocal audience and a really good run. Afterwards Teri is keen for drinks, her shout, and dancing. Anthony turns her down. Back home Anthony orders a cheese-with-extra-cheese pizza, a side of fries and an impossibly large vanilla milkshake. Then he dives under the covers of his bed, creating a safe nest where he can google in peace. 

His frustration is beginning to peak. It’s gotten to the point where he’d like to throw his rather expensive laptop across the room. He slams it shut with a growl. Then rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling. It’s never looked as ugly to him as it looks now. He can’t bear looking at it a moment longer. Restlessly he looks away catching sight of his bag from the corner of his eye. He can see the Hamlet programme peeking out the top where he’d planned to abandon it until it became nostalgic memorabilia. 

Anthony thumbs through the programme eagerly looking for a list of sponsors. He finds a handwritten note across the cover page.   


Anthony, 

Thank you for being such a dedicated member of our team!

You have a natural talent for the stage. I hope to see you in auditions next year. 

If you’re short on summer reading try _Romeo and Juliet._

Anita x

P.S. No promises but you might want to pay special attention to Romeo’s lines. 

Anthony can’t help but smile as a small portion of his frustration lifts. He finds what he’s after on the final page of the programme. That’s simply the sort of day, year, life he’s having. Though the particulars are left out, it says in small print “An an extra big thank you to Mr. A. Z. Fell for his contributions.” And that’s got to be Mr Bookshop Man because that’s the name of the store too. Working on a hunch Anthony lurchs out of bed, laptop flying, pizza abandoned. He dashes across the living room and makes a dive for the coat he’d thrown over the couch. Laying hands on his phone and slams the call button. It rings out. He puts on speaker phone so he can sit cross legged on the bed. He waits. And waits. 

“Come on, Angel.” he mutters “Pick the hell up.”

And the phone rings a last time before switching to voicemail. Anthony hits redial and listens to the phone ringing out again. The dial tone an angry allegro against his aching brain. This time he listens again to the odd shop hours. The voice is posh, stuffy, it could be the man from the other night if he wasn’t already convincing himself out of the idea. It’d be one hell of a coincidence for “Angel” and Mr. Bookshop to be the same man. It was nothing more than a hopeful hair-brained daydream. His finger hovers over the end call button as the final words of the voicemail drift up from the phone.

“...you can drop by anytime during visiting hours at A. Z. Fell and Co, Soho. Don’t leave a message or expect a response. Cheerio.” 

Now a semi automated female voice is telling him to please leave a message after the tone. Anthony can feel his heart thudding like he’s run a mile. Mr. Bookshop Man is Mr. Fell. Mr. Fell is his Angel. There’s a soft beep. He doesn’t leave a message. It’s not a conversation he could hope to have over the phone. Mr. Bookshop Man is his Angel. He’ll ring first thing tomorrow. Anthony smiles up at the ceiling seeing stars. His first instinct about “Angel” was right. His Angel. 

*******

Aziraphale watches the phone ring out a final time and go, blessedly, silent. He lets out the breath he’s been holding. It’s been like this off and on all day with every phone call that’s come in. He’s answered none of them, fearing, hoping its Crowley calling. It’d be a quick step across the room to reach the phone. The “Hello?” into the telephone already scripted. Beyond that Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say. Would he introduce himself as an Angel? As an old friend? As an enthusiastic stranger? Each have their own pitfalls. 

To intervene or not to intervene. It would be easy to insinuate himself into this human Crowley’s life. All he needs to do is pick up that phone. But it’s a magic trick. A friendly stranger who already knows how to make him laugh, smile, blush, who wouldn’t find that person fascinating? He knows Crowley’s favourite foods at his favourite restaurants. The walks he likes to take. The speed he likes to drive. He knows most of the meanings behind his expressions and glances, sunglasses or no. Right now he knows more about Crowley than Crowley knows about himself. It all seems so duplicitous to befriend Crowley in this state. Like he has an upper hand he didn’t ask for. And, technically they’re still mid argument. What if Crowley comes to himself angry at Aziraphale for using his fragile state of mind to skip the apology? 

The phone calls out a third time in several minutes. He’s going to have to admit to sometime soon that he’s lost a friend. If its temporary or immutable he can’t tell. Picking up that phone could tell him. Letting the phone call itself into silence makes it a kind of Schrodinger’s Cat. Crowley is neither dead or alive as long as they don’t open the lid of that particular box. Aziraphale can’t bring himself to pick it up. Not when it could unleash a Pandora's Box worth of pain into his world. 

*******

Anthony drums nervous fingers on the back of his cellphone. He should’ve stopped himself calling Mr Fell a third time. A third phone call is insistent but not yet annoying. A fourth phone call in one evening is bound to look clingy and uncool. So he’d better give it a good twenty-four or even forty-eight hours before he tries calling again. His Angel is Mr Fell, solid proof towards Mo’s Old Flame theory. Anthony could've kept daydreaming about it all evening but he’d wanted clear cut answers. Now he has neither answers nor piece of mind. 

“Actually fuck this.” Anthony says to no one but his plants. 

Fuck this tentative search for the truth. Fuck tiptoeing around feelings Mr Fell might or might not feel. Fuck waiting for some bloke to call him back. Mr Fell up and left at opening night but Anthony isn’t going to let him slip away again. Anthony’s had enough of trying to get all his facts straight before rushing in. Fuck subtly. He’s driving the bike over there first thing tomorrow to win back his Angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter wasn't super plot heavy but I've got another chapter in the works. I'll be posting it ASAP.


	14. Stony limits cannot hold love out - Part One

Nearly a year to the day that the Bookshop burnt down Anthony stands outside it. He’d struggled to choose between flowers, chocolates or a bottle of champagne by way of an apology. So he’d bought them all. He’s not totally sure what he is apologising for but he feels in his gut that he should. All he knows is this man was important to him once and he wants to make all right between them. For the past several minutes he’s been knocking at the shop door hoping to be let in. But Mr Fell has clearly assumed he’s an especially insistent customer. Anthony looks through a window and finds the blinds drawn against him. He tests the door handle. It’s locked.

“Hello! Mr Fell?” Anthony bangs hard on the door again, he rattles the handle. 

He’s just decided the next thing he’ll try is prizing open a window when from the corner of his eye he sees a curtain twitch. It’s on the second story. A bedroom or an office perhaps. 

“Hey!” he calls up at the window. “Oi!” 

The curtain flutters, is it the wind? By this time Anthony has begun to gather attention. Busy London suits and casual shoppers are slowing distracted from their single mindedness to gawk. Fine, Anthony thinks, _fine_! They can have the real show. Anthony steps back from the Bookshop as he would step onto a stage. He is going to need room for this and if he’s standing in someone’s parking spot so be it. In his clearest, most actor-ish voice Anthony calls out to the second story window of A. Z. Fell and Co. 

“O, speak again, bright Angel!”

Just one conversation. Less. Give me three words.

“For thou art as glorious to this night...well the morning.”

He is screwing this up. It’s go big or go home. Surely Shakespeare would tempt his Angel out? He flings his arms wide towards the window and throws his feelings behind the words. 

“Being o'er my head as is a winged messenger of heaven…” He flings his glasses off with feeling. “...unto the white-upturned wondering eyes of mortals that fall back to gaze on him when he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds and sails upon the bosom of the air.”

Anthony falls to his knees on the pavement, face upturned to the window, breathless with emotion. At heart Anthony is a romantic. It would have taken less than this to get him to stop reading a book or sulking or whatever is keeping Mr. Fell from falling into his arms. Where is the man’s romantic streak? Where is his Angel? Someone actually clapped as his speech finished but being the wrong member of his small audience he’d ignored them. In the corner of his eye Anthony sees them holding out a couple of coins and looking for the non-existent buskers hat. Anthony isn’t sure what else he can do at that point, short of breaking in. He considers it but by now he’s got too many eyes on him.

*******

Aziraphale stands in the shelter of a lacy curtain watching the lithe and lonesome figure below. He’d listened rapt to every word, heart singing, eyes stinging. More than anything he wants to take a leap on love’s light wings, fling the windows wide and call out to the unhappy shadow of his friend. Aziraphale’s hands are white knuckled. He’s warred with himself these last few minutes, digging half moons into his soft palms to stop his heart from ruling his head. Down below the figure in black picks himself up from the pavement. Aziraphale eases himself away from the window with a sigh. 

The upstairs room has Edwardian wallpaper and a cast iron bed frame. The dominating feature of the room, like the rest of Aziraphale’s life, are the books. Shelves line the far wall until the peeling wallpaper barely peeks through. With an expert eye Aziraphale finds the slim, blue volume he came upstairs for. It’s embossed with a neat little image of a cat under the title _Practical Magic for the Practicing Witch._ It doesn’t look like the sort of book that would tell him how to undo Crowley’s curse. But he’s pulling all his resources just incase. 

It is with quiet care that Aziraphale takes the stairs to the Bookshop proper and returns to the task at hand. He has been scouring his shelves for books on magic all night long. Aziraphale’s books are the real deal, filled with dangerous magic that shouldn’t be allowed to fall into the hands of humans. Or really anyone who might like to use it. Knowing how dangerous the information is Aziraphale wouldn’t do anything so obvious as to hide it in a place where people expect to find something valuable. Like, for example, a safe. Naturally the books on magic don’t have their own section in his carefully cultivated library. Instead are scattered hither and yon among his personal collection, chumming it up with first editions of Wilde and paperback prophecies that never came true. 

Finding the books is only a matter of time. Aziraphale has an extensive if somewhat fallible knowledge of his own collection. Finding the information he needs in those books will be his next big problem. And Aziraphale is smart but he’s only one Angel. If he wants to solve the mystery of Anthony J. Crowley he’ll need an extra pair of eyes. He amends the thought, he has a great many eyes, what he really needs is a second mind. He wishes again that mind could be Crowley’s. Crowley who had kept a tartan thermos of holy water in a safe behind an obvious painting for over fifty years. Certain the tartan would be enough to throw burglars off the scent. They might disagree on general methods but there wasn’t anyone Aziraphale would rather have on his side. 

*******

Anthony is stumped. He sits on the stoop rejection, in the line of his shoulders, glasses jammed onto his face. The flowers are already wilting in the mid-morning summer sun and the chocolates are melting. The bubbly is warm but Anthony is tempted to drink it anyway. Not all Anthony’s audience have left. A short, pale man in a business suit had been taking his usual route to work when he spotted Anthony’s display. He has a worn, friendly face, frown lines and pale facial hair that hasn’t chosen if it’s stubble or a beard. He makes a detour. 

“Hello. Are you alright there?”

Anthony looks up into a concerned face. 

“You seem a little down.”

Anthony makes a derisive noise that indicates just how much an understatement this is. 

“Break up?” The man is nodding towards the flowers. 

So Anthony nods back because that’s infinitely easier than explaining and probably isn’t far off the truth. Anyway it describes his feelings of rejection accurately. 

“I know how that can be. It’s always hard. Doesn’t matter what side of the equation you’re on. It does get better, I can tell you that.” The man gives an encouraging smile that lights up his whole face and crinkles the worry lines into smile lines. 

Anthony tries a weak smile back and finds he’s grateful for the thousandth time for his sunglasses. He can feel tears of frustration welling in his eyes. When a single tear escapes the discreet comfort of the shades to snake down his nose the other man can’t help but notice. 

“Can I buy you a beer?” the man offers. “Looks like you need it. I’m Barry Mclachlan by the way.” and he sticks out a hand. 

Anthony takes the hand, expecting a handshake, expecting to brush the offer aside. Instead finds himself hauled to his feet and clapped warmly on the shoulder. 

“Good man.” says Barry. 

Then he is collecting Anthony’s odds and ends and leading the way to the local pub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey, here's another chapter - I've broken it into parts because it was getting really long. So expect the next chapter over the weekend (so in, like, two days?). Enjoy!


	15. Stony limits cannot hold love out - Part Two

Aziraphale had paused in his book hunt. In the silence he’d heard Crowley slump against the door. He replaced the book to its shelf with his usual care and  and padded over to the door. There he sat back to back with Crowley, only a thin panel of wood and an ocean  of misunderstandings separating them.  He  sees the thin silhouette through the blinds, feels the weak rattle of the handle. He can’t quite make out the muffled conversation but he hears movement. The scrape of clothes on concrete Crowley as he pulls himself to his feet. The sharp clip of his elegant shoes on the pavement carrying him further away. 

In Aziraphale’s mind a bright red strand of string connects them heart to heart. It’s stretched taught as Crowley’s footsteps echo away. And with each and every step it pulls Aziraphale’s heart further from his chest. Aziraphale steels himself. The urge to open the door and call down the street is all but overwhelming. But what’s the use? It would do nothing but confuse Crowley and wound himself. Of course there had been another time, not all that long ago when Aziraphale had kept important information from Crowley. It left him discorapted and Bookshop burning. Aziraphale bites his lip, this time, tries to tell himself, is different. 

Aziraphale lets his head loll against the door. The footsteps have long since faded. H e feels as if he might sink into the carpet and never be seen again.  The quicker he finds a solution to Crowley’s “curse” the sooner they'll be reunited. Only, right now, he’s not sure where he can muster the energy to go on looking. Not when Crowley’s arrival and departure sparked all the joy in him and drain all the life from him.  This time it’s for Crowley’s own good. For their own good. It’s the best thing for him. For them.  He sighs and gets doggardly to his feet. 

Aziraphale pulls a patterned carpet bag onto the counter. It was once Crowley’s but more in Aziraphale’s style. Crowley had used it back when they were raising a child who wasn’t the antichrist. Then it was pasted over, unprompted, to Aziraphale. He wrenches it open trying not to dwell on unhelpful things. He focused instead on packing. In this way he needn’t think beyond the next item in the bag. Into the carpet bag goes a change of clothes and a toothbrush. A round of good french cheese, a box of crackers and a stick of salami. Then a walnut and banana loaf from the local bakery. A pack of cards, a series of colourful handkerchiefs and a collapsable, spring loaded, tophat. 

The crepe recipe goes in the bag, once, twice, before being reconsidered and put aside. Where Aziraphale is going there won’t be time for crepes. Then in goes his second best dressing gown and a first edition of  _ An Ideal Husband _ for light travel reading. This he wraps in a tea towel for protection. Lastly a brightly wrapped birthday present and pair of back-up brogues. The magic books, of which there are many, he packs into the worn leather bag that’s always kept his books safe when Crowley wasn’t around to do the job.

***

“Are you a guinness guy?” Barry has his wallet in one hand. 

There were several things wrong with that sentence but only one thing Anthony has the energy to protest. 

“I’m getting myself a whisky. I need a proper drink.” Anthony gets to his feet but Barry gesturing him to sit. 

“My shout. Seriously.” and he’s at the bar paying for the drinks before Anthony can refuse the generosity. 

Anthony isn’t sure how he agreed to this. Day drinking with a stranger. He’s not even sure how he feels about it. He’s not sure how he feels about anything right now. Barry slides the whisky sour to Anthony and takes a sip of his own stout. Anthony sinks low in his chair, half draped across the table in misery. 

“You want to talk about it?” Barry offers. 

Anthony shrugs.  “I think I might’ve been in love with him but it’s too early to tell. ” he sinks lower into his chair and drinks his whiskey with a grim tenacity. 

A miserable silence descends. So Barry fills it. He talks about his latest failed relationship. How a year ago he was getting over one big break up and now he’s getting over another. Anthony is expected to do nothing beyond adding the occasional murmur of agreement. It dawns on Anthony that Barry really doesn’t want anything more than a friend to commiserate with. He feels himself relax somewhat. 

And Anthony finds it comforting to distract himself with another person’s problems for a time. Barry is such a self-deprecating pessimist that it could well be a dull monologue. It is saved by the gentle manner it’s delivered in. Then Anthony finds he does want to talk. So he spins Barry the whole sorry, sob story. He finds Barry to be an excellent listener, nodding in all the right places, gently agreeing when possible and murmuring “That’s shit.” more than once.

***

By this time Aziraphale is on the bus to Tadfield. He’s been on the bus for several hours now, most of them on the M25. There is a book open on his lap, behind his reading glasses his eyes have glazed over. In his mind another scene plays out. The sound of something Queen hums from the Bentley’s speakers. He and Crowley are on the road together, on the M25 going nowhere fast. Then with devilish grin Crowley puts his foot on the gas and by some demonic miracle they’ve cut through the crowded motorway. Now they’re on the home stretch and Crowley’s turning to him, one hand still on the wheel, to tease Aziraphale for packing his magic tricks. Then they’re walking through the wide streets of Tadfeild and it’s a perfect summer day. 

Turning up at Adam’s birthday party without the demon isn’t really worth the bus trip. Aziraphale has never been comfortable around children and without Crowley he’ll be a fish out of water at an event like this. Sure, he has packed a few of his smaller magic tricks in case time and circumstance allow. But even then, it wouldn’t be worth it except...except he needs an extra brain or two if he’s to find a cure for Crowley’s curse. It wouldn’t be worth it, except he wants to run a theory past the only two people he can possibly talk to about this post-non-pocalypse Crowley nonsense. A Witch and a Mystic. 

***

“...He just disappeared…I really thought there was something there yunno?” Anthony lets the words fade. He’d thought he was being concise, or concise with a dose of self pity. But he can see Barry’s attention drift off him. And fair enough, Anthony reminds himself, h e has been talking about his own problems for at least a solid hour which is more than most strangers would care to listen to. 

“Sorry.” says Barry registering the silence. “I, ah-”

“If you’ve got to go...I get it...”

“No, no. I’m just having one of those moments when you remember how small London can be.”

Anthony doesn’t think “small” is the obvious adjective and says so. 

Barry rubs his forehead searching for the right words. “It’s...we’ve met before. Sort of.” His brow wrinkles further. “I know your Mr Fell.”

Anthony is struck by a sudden pang of unfounded jealousy. His first thought is Barry’s dated his Angel. That London’s a small world indeed and an ugly one at that. Then Barry stutters apologetically onwards. 

“At least I think it was...it’s more than a year ago now.  _ Know _ is a strong word. You’ve got no reason to remember- ” and then as if struck by divine inspiration he asks “Do you own a Bentley?”

That lights a fire in Anthony’s brain. He leans forward all trepidation and keenness. 

“Kinda. I did.”

Barry is nodding, a look in his eyes that wouldn’t be misplaced on a Mad Scientist. “Do you remember, last year, standing outside that bookstore, Fell and Co. going through a break up?” 

Anthony doesn’t remember but he is just as eager as Barry and chasing the same thought. The thought of something big.  He doesn’t hesitate a moment longer to explain his amnesia. 

And then Barry says “Yes! I thought so. Definitely you, the sunglasses, the Bentley. And the other man, pale hair, old timey-suit, very English, very gay. Is this who you’re talking about? Is he your Angel?”

“Yeah.”

So Barry explains the rest of it. Running into the two of them while Anthony ranted about the star-spangled life he was leaving Mr Fell for. The eccentric display had been not dissimilar to the Balcony scene today but had been headed, emotionally speaking, in the opposite direction. Anthony interrogates Barry for every detail. By the time he finishes Barry is sipping on his second beer and Anthony is reeling. 

He and Mr Fell were a couple? How had  _ that _ not come up sooner? Then what Barry  _ actually _ said catches up with him. A break up. His daydreams take a nosedive towards the earth. He and Mr Fell broken up and it sounded, fraught, messy. All the little hints and clues he’s been getting from Mr Fell are not a fiction from his foggy brain. They knew each other. Intimately. Actually explains it all.  How it Mr Fell was drawn to him, hinting at something romantic, only to push him away and avoid any talk of taking it further. Anthony swears into his whiskey. The man he had been was an idiot, obviously. Letting his Angel go like that. 

“So after all that you brought him a drink?” Anthony asks raising his own. 

“It was just said a few words. Really.” and Barry looks chagrined as he adds “I might have told him he was better off without you. He did look heartbroken.”

Was it possible that post-breakup-Anthony had got into his Bentley, worked up, perhaps even crying. That he’d sped down the road only several blocks, then crashed and lost his memories? 

“When was this, again?”   
  
“Oh a while back.”

“Months?”

“About a year.” 

So the timeline didn’t add up. This would've been months before the crash. Anthony has to let his sudden theory slide. He raises his glass and they toast t o mending of broken hearts. 

Towards the end of the afternoon Barry asks for Anthony’s phone and starts punching his number in. 

“-as a friend.” he clarifies, seeing Anthony’s crestfallen face. “I’m not in a good place for romance right now and- I just wanna help. If you need it.”

“Like lonely hearts club or something?”

Barry laugh, his worries seeming to lift again. “Where’s that reference from?”

“Yeah, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band of Two. Beatles.”

***

Anthony walks homes with a spring in his step. Teri texts him two hours later with no explanation: We need to talk about your love life. 

##### 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back online start of next month (November) Sorry! xx


	16. Chapter 16

The bus ride to Tadfeild had been lonely but Aziraphale was greeted warmly by the local humans but also by the village itself. As the bus slowed to a stop outside the church Aziraphale sensed something he hadn’t felt in a while...Love. Adam’s unconditional love for his home turf. Aziraphale was used to a baseline static of unconditional love, it was the hum of humanity, who were good to the core underneath a patina of daily pettiness. Accompanying the static, like an out of sync harmony, were little flashes of affection created from moments of more intense do-gooding. It was the static that had Aziraphale convinced for many thousands of years that good would ultimately triumph over evil. Often Aziraphale found himself dialing down the static just to concentrate on his own daily tasks. 

Now Aziraphale stands at the bus stop straining to sense the static and can feel...nothing. Arriving in Tadfield is like a sudden welcome silence after the roar of music. Sensing Adam’s Love made Aziraphale notice what he was missing. Is the world becoming...bad? Aziraphale rebukes himself for the ungodly thought. Aziraphale’s own world had become worse since Crowley was “cursed” but that was not an excuse to project his feelings onto the state of the world at large. 

Once, when trying to describe the static feeling to Crowley, Aziraphale compared it to the wireless. It was, he’d said as wine sloshed into his glass, like turning into a station that didn’t always have a good signal. Sometimes the song - the static, the Love, the love-static - or whatever sounded further away. But since Aziraphale had arrived on Earth it had never gone silent. Crowley must have thought the metaphor rather funny because he'd shown up at Aziraphale’s bookshop the next day with a hangover and an mp3 player loaded with love songs. Aziraphale remembered it clearly because Crowley had disappeared for a solid month after that. No doubt sleeping off the hangover which was a pity because Aziraphale hadn’t known how to use an mp3 player and could’ve used Crowley’s help. The subject of the static had never come up again. 

*******

By the time Aziraphale arrives Adam’s birthday party has fallen into two rival camps. Party games and sugar for the kids, gossiping and day drinking for the adults. Mr Young rises from a deck chair to greet Aziraphale with a handshake. He can’t quite place the bowtie wearing gentleman but Deirdre must have invited him because here he is. The word “godfather” drifts in and out of the conversation. Mr Young supposes Adam has godparents but he’ll be damned if he can remember choosing them. He looks Aziraphale over, he’s dressed like an old-fashioned professor with a flare of unnecessary whimsy, definitely one Deirdre’s friends then. 

Aziraphale gets the rest of the birthday formalities over with quickly by handing Adam a suspiciously book-shaped present. It is, in point of fact,  _ two _ books. Both are children’s annuals of adventures and experiments, circa 1950. The very unspecific titles are “Boy’s Own” and “Girl’s Guide.” Aziraphale generously assumes this to be a mistake on the part of the publishers. Mr Young however suffers a moment of consternation at the title of the second book but whatever old-fashioned opinion he wants to voice goes unheard overshadowed by Adam’s enthusiasm. Adam expresses his gratitude by offering Aziraphale the next whack at the pinata which Aziraphale politely refuses. Even blindfolded he’d be able to tear apart the paper planet with one strike and isn’t about to spoil everyone's fun. While Dog steals the pinata stick, Aziraphale goes looking for Madame Tracy. 

Madame Tracy, dressed top-to-toe in mystic finery, has taken up residence at the end of the picnic table. She is doing a tarot card reading for a young mother who can only belong to Pepper. Aziraphale seats himself next to Tracy and waits primly, hands folded on his lap, for her to finish. The second she is free he scoots in closer. 

“Madam, we need to talk-”

Tracy holds up a hand, her bangles clattering reproachfully. “I’m sensing something from you, a peculiar energy…we’d best do a reading right away.” She puts the pack of cards firmly in Aziraphale’s hand.

“It’s rather important…” he protests.

“Is it the-end-of-the-world important?”

The end of his world maybe. Aziraphale shakes his head mutely to which Tracy leans in conspiratorially. “I like to keep up the old skills.”

And Aziraphale can agree with that. He starts to shuffle the cards, thinking fondly of the pack of playing cards in his breast pocket and the scarves in his overnight bag. It hasn’t occurred to Aziraphale just yet but there are three very good reasons the tarot cards might have insight into his current situation. Firstly, Madame Tracy is susceptible to mystical forces. Secondly, by virtue of being an Angel the tarot cards are more likely to work him than say Pepper’s Mum, a human with an unerring love for fantasy novels. And thirdly, the simple, very unmagical reason that he and Tracy are friends. Aziraphale passes back the newly shuffled cards and Madame Tracy lays three on the table. 

“I want you to ask yourself a question. No, no need to say it outloud, this is between you and the cards.”

Sure enough Aziraphale has opened his mouth to respond. Tracy closes her eyes, settles back in her picnic chair, reaching for her inner eye. When she next speaks her voice is a passable imitation of Cate Blanchett during the opening monologue of  _ Lord of the Rings _ . It had gone down very well with Pepper’s Mum. 

“Three cards are before you. They represent many things. Things that were, things that are, and some things that have not yet come to pass. “Do you have a question? It might be a decision you have to make. Maybe something in your life needs clarification?” She continues breathily. “I want you to hold a question in your mind.” 

Aziraphale nods. Tracy cracks an eye open to check and Aziraphale nods again. It wasn’t hard to come up with a question when the words _help_ _Crowley, save Crowley_ play in an endless loop in his mind. Tracy flips over the first card. Shoulder to shoulder they lean over the picnic table to view the results.

“This card represents your past.” 

The picture looks very much like poor, pale imitation of Adam and Eve. “The Lovers.” Tracy relaxes into the reading,  _ this _ is in her ballpark. “And above them...that’s the Arc Angel Raphael.” 

She points to an angel with more abs than the human torso could possibly accommodate. The angel, who she’d incorrectly referred to as Raphael, looms above the Lovers looking ready to smite. The expression on his face is the same one Aziraphale reserves for seedy individuals out to by his bookshop and not for harmless humans. Tracy misreads the little frown forming between Aziraphale’s eyebrows. 

“This card doesn’t necessarily indicate romantic love. It refers to a foundational relationship in your life. Perhaps a parent? Or a close friend?” 

Aziraphale’s heart jolts. He’s just spotted a small illustration of Crowley peeking out from the apple tree and looking satisfactorily smug. Aziraphale hadn’t put much stock in tarot reading until right this very moment.

“A foundational relationship? That’s Crowley, I dare say.”

“And he’s your…lover, partner, boyfriend?”

“He’s my best friend.”

It had taken him six thousand years but at long last Aziraphale is admitting that much aloud. Aziraphale perches his spectacles on his nose and peers closely at the card. The serpent had to be more than a coincidence. This was something else..a sort of mystical interference perhaps? In any case **,** Aziraphale looks suitability awed Madame Tracy flips over the second card. It’s of a little red heart pierced by three swords set on a rainy backdrop. 

“This is the present.” Tracy pauses dramatically to tap her iridescent nails against the cards. “What energy are you feeling from this card? Is it a happy card, do you think?”

Aziraphale pockets his spectacles. He wasn’t able to sense any mystical energy, the cards are just cards. “Ah...well...oh dear. I’m not altogether sure what you mean madam?” 

“Any associations to this card? Swords? Hearts? It’s a very powerful image.”

“Oh! In that case, I’ve always loved the rain. Yes, it’s happy card, I think. Very happy.”

Tracy nods as if seriously considering Aziraphale’s personal reading before offering her own. 

“I’m seeing heartache, struggle, conflict. Are you currently entangled in a love triangle?”

Aziraphale had once been in a love triangle back in the 1880s. It had been between himself, Oscar Wilde and a charming young man who had been very eager to teach Aziraphale the gavotte. It had taken Aziraphale rather a long time to realise he was the object of affection. The moment he had it had ceased to be a love triangle and quickly become more of a naked love tangle between the three of them. Now Aziraphale blushes to the tips of his ears. “Madam, goodness no. I don’t have any romantic partners.” 

Tracy looks frankly and skeptically at him. “None? Not... _ one _ ?” It was obvious to anyone who’d spent any time with the Angel and Demon what they meant to each other. You didn’t have to be Madame Tracy, who’d spent a short time in Aziraphale’s head to see his thoughts were preoccupied with one particular person.

Aziraphale shakes his head firmly. “No, none of that at the moment.”

Tracy can see she’s not getting anywhere with this line of inquiry but Aziraphale is not the first customer who she’s had to encourage open up. She changes tactics. 

“Silly me, I was reading it all wrong!” Madame Tracy exclaims, as if the thought just struck her. “Normally I’m sitting across from the other person in a tarot reading. This is the three of swords  _ reversed _ .”

She flips the card upside down. 

“The card is suggesting you’ll need to open up the lines of communication in this relationship to build the best possible future together.”

Aziraphale nods along. It’s all good, if rather generalized, advice. “I suppose...Crowley and I haven't been on the best of terms lately.”

“I could sense that.”

“We had a rather heated argument, I’m afraid. And now...well, I’ve been avoiding him ever since."

Tracy pats his arm in a comfortingly brisk manner. “The cards are responding to that. Can you see the pattern they’re making? It’s all centering around this special person…”

“Crowley.”

“Mr Crowley. So this final card should present the future for you and him.”

Madame Tracy flips the final card with some panache. Usually Tracy removes the death card from the tarot pack before starting a reading. It tended put people off. She was sure she’d put the card aside before doing a reading for Pepper’s Mum. But here it was on the table. Madame Tracy sneaks a glance at Aziraphale and finds he’s gone pale, dropping the Cate Blanchett impersonation she intervenes. 

“Now it’s a common misconception that the death card represents death. It’s so much more about rebirth and regeneration. What’s it suggesting here is that change can actually be a good thing.”

“But it could also mean…literal death?” 

“Yes but, a big strapping occult being like yourself...I’m sure death bounces right off you.”

Aziraphale quirks his eyebrows, struck with the sudden mental image of Death himself, bouncing on a trampoline robes flapping. He giggles a little hysterically. 

“This trouble you’re having between you and Mr Crowley. Do you feel up to talking about it?”

Aziraphale’s giggles subside into hiccups and then into silence. He takes a steadying breath and begins.

"We argued. Now he's lost his memories. So there's no way to make it up to him..." 

Tracy interrupts only once to fetch Anathema. Aziraphale details it all from his post-Armageddon recklessness, to Crowley’s clinginess, the Argument, Crowley’s memory loss. And now the distance Aziraphale can feel building between them. Most of all he outlines his search for a cure for Crowley. He takes the time to voice a couple vague theories he has and within minutes he and Anathema are toss magical theories back and forth. The three of them hardly move from the picnic table for the rest of the afternoon. Their conversation is interrupted by the arrival of Deirdre Young, as she crosses the no man’s land of lawn between adults and children with the ultimate boon, of birthday cake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello ~ 
> 
> I'm back! Thanks for waiting. And I've got another chapter lined up for next week. 
> 
> Gwindolyn xx


	17. Chapter 17

In the early evening Madame Tracy and Shadwell take their motorscooter home. Aziraphale sees them off as far as the main road. Late as it is they’ve decided not to attempt the whole Tadfield to London journey in one go. 

“That,” Shadwell insists, “Is a once in a lifetime, never to be repeated nightmare!” 

Tracy titters. “It was all rather exciting,  _ really _ . Wasn’t it Mr Shadwell?”

And Shadwell mutters a response to which Tracy beams. 

Aziraphale is aware he is missing the subtleties of their conversation and is quite happy in his ignorance. Tracy and Shadwell have plans to stop over at a bed and breakfast which is all Aziraphale needs and wants to know. It’s all he has time to find out, as he’s itching to get back to solving Crowley’s curse. Aziraphale farewells them both, surprising Tracy and himself by giving her a brief, grateful hug. Tracy returns the hug as over her shoulder Shadwell gives Aziraphale a fierce glare. 

“I seem to have upset Mr Shadwell.” Aziraphale whispers as they break apart. 

“Leave Mr S. to me,” Tracy gives Aziraphale a knowing wink. “You’ve your young man to worry about.” 

Before Aziraphale can compose an answer the little motorscooter is pootling into the distance, Shadwell clinging to Tracy for dear life. Aziraphale waves until they disappear around the corner. When they reach the B&B - Shadwell shaking, Tracy smiling - they’ll find they’ve been miraculously upgraded to the best room for no extra charge. Aziraphale settles in at the lonely churchyard bus stop to wait for the bus he’s miracled. It’s not on time, not even angels are that powerful. 

Aziraphale returns to London that evening for a few short hours. He doesn’t often sleep. Instead he packs the things he’s forgotten; books in one bag, snacks in the other. And puts a sign in the shop window that reads: Most Definitely Closed. By the early hours of the morning, he is on the bus back to Tadfield and by ten o’clock that morning he is walking up the path to Jasmine Cottage. Anathema Device has a cup of tea waiting for him. She takes Aziraphale’s bags and reminds him that he’s welcome to stay for as long as it takes. At the same time it just so happens that Tracy and Shadwell are being served a better than usual continental breakfast. 

*******

Aziraphale, Anathema and Newt’s newly formed “Save Crowley” study group meets that sunny Saturday morning over toast and coffee. Anathema is as perfectly put together as ever, Newt wanders in at eleven still half asleep and only recently showered. Anathema plants a kiss on his cheek and directs him towards the freshly brewed pot of coffee where it’s hidden amongst the books. Anathema and Aziraphale have pooled their resources and there isn’t a square inch of table left visible. 

Aziraphale watches this morning ritual play out over the top of a book on demonology. It’s been a while since Aziraphale took note of human mating practices, yet to his untrained eye Newt and Anathema appear very comfortably domestic for a couple that only met a year ago. They are so perfectly at ease it’s as if they’ve known each other a lifetime. He supposes that’s what comes of saving the world together, theirs is a trusting relationship forged in the crucible of danger. At least, he adds cynically to himself, that’s what saving the world is  _ meant _ to do for a relationship. The Apocalypse had played the reverse trick on him and Crowley. 

Their research quickly develops a rough rhythm. Both Newt and Aziraphale pass on the most cryptic writings to Anathema to crack. While Newt is putting his training in the Witchfinder Army to good use by scanning London newspapers for occult occurrences. He’s honing in on the week of Crowley’s car crash. And Aziraphale is leafing through various grimoires following his nose and at times, his heart. The three of them settle into this rhythm and barely look up from their books, newspapers and ancient scrolls for three solid days. The humans take time out to sleep and eat. Preoccupied as he is, Aziraphale does neither. 

*******

Since acquainting himself with the gas hob at Jasmine Cottage Newt’s cooking has improved by leaps and bounds. He was never any good back home with his electric stove top. Newt has begun to realise this may have had less to do with his qualities as a cook and more to do with his inability to switch on something electric without blowing it up. These days Newt does most of the cooking for him and Anathema **,** he’s even begun to enjoy it. Though he still can’t defrost bread in the microwave without burning it. 

Newt notices the way Aziraphale picks at his food and leaves half drunk cups of tea in odd places. The first time it happens he takes it personally, the second time it worries him. By the fourth day of research Newt has made it his quiet mission to get a good meal into the angel. He is laying the table for lunch when Anathema slams her book shut. Newt jumps and Aziraphale nearly spills his tea. 

“Sorry.” says Newt to no one in particular. Aziraphale puts his tea aside as if it’s committed an act of treason trying to escape the mug. 

“If only Crowley were here.” Anathema is looking stormy-eyes and serious. “If I could get one look at his aura then we’d have something to go on.” 

“Can’t we? Don’t you have _things_ for that?” asks Aziraphale wiggling his fingers to indicate a keyboard. 

As it turns out, Newt had tried to google something perfectly innocent on Anathema’s iPad earlier in the week. The thing is now so infected with viruses that it crashes at short, inconvenient intervals. Anathema shoves the iPad aside as the screen fades to black for the eighth time in a row. 

“Anyway,” she shrugs “We can’t be sure a demonic aura would show up over skype.”

“Well...what about scrying?” 

Newt and Anathema look at Aziraphale, both incredulous for different reasons, then in unison protested the idea. 

“That can’t be real!”

“But isn’t it impossibly difficult?” 

Aziraphale looks appraisingly at the humans over the rim of his mug. “We have a resident witch, do we not?” 

“My speciality is auras and prophecies.” Anathema takes off her glasses and polishes them on a lacy sleeve. “Perhaps another witch could scry for Crowley...but there isn’t exactly a phonebook to find her. Besides, scrying hasn’t been in fashion since the seventies.” 

“Could we ask Tracy…?” Newt’s thought sputters out under Amathema’s skeptical stare. Madame Tracy might be plugged into the universe but it’s in a fairly temperamental way. 

“But could  _ you _ try it?” a hopeful light is kindling in Aziraphale’s eyes.

After three days of nothing the feeling is catching. Newt and Aziraphale grin at each other. Anathema finds herself metaphorically putting her foot down. 

“Scrying is complicated. I just don’t think we’ll have time to prepare. We won't have a good moon to start with...” 

“Might as well give it ago, though,” chimes in Newt, “What’s the worst that’ll happen? We find something you’re not perfect at?”

Anathema gives Newt a sharp look which he returns with a smile, as he continues serving up hearty slices of veggie lasagna. 

“Alright. There’s an almanac in that pile.” She points to a pile at Aziraphale’s elbow. He starts digging through it. 

Anathema folds her arms. “We can try at the next full moon. But nobody get their hopes up.”

Aziraphale looks up from the almanac. “It’s two days away.” he’s unable to keep the excitement from his voice. 

Anathema smiles solemnly “There’s still a few things to pull together…” 

Newt tosses his apron over the back of a nearby chair. “Who’s for lunch?” He slides a heaped plate over to Aziraphale. “We can talk logistics after.” 

He holds out a plate to Anathema and a minute later Newt is blessed by the happy silence of three people tucking into a good meal. 


	18. Chapter 18

Aziraphale and Anathema are in a muddy field at midnight waiting for the moon to peak out from behind stubborn clouds. They’ve set a silver (coloured) mixing bowl on the grass, half filled with water. Anathema is currently reading aloud from one of her mother’s magic books. It had suggested newly drawn running water for this sort of incantation. Aziraphale offered to fetch some from the local stream though it involved crossing through R. P. Tyler’s property. After verbal fisty cuffs between R. P. Tyler and Aziraphale it had seemed much less bother to use tap water. Anathema finishes casting the spell and Aziraphale crosses his fingers. 

Scrying is a difficult business. Even at full moon on a cloudless night Anathema never had much luck with it. The best she’d ever got was a few murky shapes in the bottom of the bowl and honestly she didn’t expect anything better this time. She’d confided as much to Newt before leaving the cottage earlier in the evening. 

“It won’t work. Aziraphale be disappointed, he’ll be crushed…” 

Aziraphale was still faffing about. He could be heard just over the fence trying to talk R. P. Tyler into letting him pass, though it was clear to Anathema this would never be allowed.

“Once he comes back with the water you’ll be sorted...What’s that look you’re giving me?”

Anathema hid her face in Newt’s shoulder and mumbled. “We don’t need special water. I only said that because he is happier helping.” Newt’s arm tightens comfortingly around her. 

“At least he’ll see you have it your best shot. Sometimes it’s more important to know someone is on your side.” 

Then Newt had tried to kiss her cheek and they’d bumped glasses. Anathema laughed. 

“There’ll be cocoa on the stove when you get back.” promised Newt. 

And Anathema had squared her shoulders and pulled on her coat. She’d smiled, happy to have someone on her side too. 

*******

Many cold, quiet minutes pass before the clouds part. The moon shines down onto the silver bowl and the water begins to ripple. 

“I knew you could do it!” cries Aziraphale. 

But his excitement is short lived. Anathema looks for it and can see the wind whipping through the trees at the edge of the field. Though the full force of the gale hasn’t yet reached them, it's the first whispers of the coming storm that are stirring up the water, not anything more mystical. The water in the bowl stills, Aziraphale lets out a soft “Harumph.”

The clouds above scatter and regroup, the moon winking in and out of sight. Anathema’s gaze is turned skyward hoping for a sliver of moon but expecting no real outcome. Aziraphale hasn’t taken his eyes from the silver bowl as if he expects the spell to be completed momentarily. He’s bound to be disappointed. Anathema might know her own limits but Aziraphale doesn't. In fact he has unerring confidence in her and much like Crowley’s imagination, Aziraphale’s blind faith can be a powerful force. So when he and Anathema lean over the bowl the water ripples again, swirls and becomes solid, just as Aziraphale expected. Anathema bites her lip to stop herself gasping with surprise. Until this time last year Anathema Device had dedicated herself to studying the Nice and Accurate Prophecies of her ancestor Angus Nutter. She was not used to being surprised. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Colour continues to flood the dark rippling water and there is Crowley, a small perfectly detailed image at the bottom of the bowl. It’s as if they’re peering through the wrong end of a telescope into his Mayfair flat. 

Crowley is asleep, swathed in silk pajamas and curled in a nest of dark bedding, he looks perfectly peaceful. A little voice in the back of Aziraphale’s mind is reaching for the loudspeaker to scold him better. He is lucky, the little voice reprimands him, they hadn’t caught Crowley in a more compromising position. Truthfully the thought hadn’t crossed Aziraphale’s mind. Or rather he’d spend many thousands of years avoiding ruminating directly on “those sorts of things” until it was habit to trick himself into focusing his attention elsewhere. Had Aziraphale ever asked, for instance, if Crowley slept naked? Of course not and his Bibles needed reshelving. Had he considered whether this human incarnation of Crowley had taken a lover? No, that wasn’t a sensible way to think about your best friend and he needed to feed the St James Park ducks. Theoretically Aziraphale knew Crowley slept. But he had he been confronted so boldly with the fact since the mid-1800s? Not at all, the demon was there when he needed him and that was that. Of course this human Crowley sleeps, Aziraphale chides himself, it was to be expected.

Anathema is leaning over the bowl concentrating on the task at hand and so far experiencing fewer moral twinges. So soft in the darkness she almost misses it, is a lovelorn sigh, not meant for her ears. She resists the urge to look at the Angel. Then something in the bowl catches her attention, something she hadn’t noticed right away. Crowley’s aura is normal,  _ human _ normal, just a faint blurring of colour outlining him. Whereas Aziraphale’s aura, if she really looks for it, is so bright it’d be casting shadows across the lawn if it existed on the physical plane. While Aziraphale’s aura clings to his body in the same way it would on a human it reaches further, forming a rough circle around him from wingtip to invisible wingtip. 

“Right now Crowley’s aura is human-shaped.”

Aziraphale peers at the rippling water as if by squinting he will be able to see what Anathema described. “Is he entirely human?” The question is whispered almost as if Aziraphale is asking the miniature Crowley in the bowl. 

Anathema answers for him. “Sort of. His aura is the same colour it's always been. It’s the same demonic glow but it the edges look like torn paper, like chunks have been ripped out to make it human shaped.”

“Are the missing pieces...gone?”

Then like a bad omen the wind catches up with them, breaking Anathema’s concentration and upending the scrying bowl. They spend the next several minutes chasing it through the mud. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's kinda a short chapter but there should be more this week! xx


	19. Chapter 19

The Witch and the Angel trudge back towards the cottage lost in the haze of their own thoughts. Anathema makes several fruitless attempts at conversations. Finding herself caught between wanting to say something hopeful and wanting to stay truthful she keeps quiet for the rest of the walk home. Above all Anathema wants to know what their next step should be, Aziraphale barely notices the silence. 

Together Anathema and Aziraphale wipe their muddy feet on the doormat, Newt runs a bath at the sight of them. Running a bath at Jasmine Cottage is a laborious process. The pipes in the old cottage are so unreliable Newt has long since resorted to boiling the bathwater kettle by kettle, seeing this Aziraphale offers to miracle the water warm. He perches on the side of the bathtub and watches the cold water splash and gurgle onto porcelain below. He finds himself trembling - from nerves or cold he can’t say - and his attempt lights the surface of the bath water on fire. 

*******

Newt makes three cocoas and they gather in the living room to talk over their findings. Aziraphale stares into the depths of his mug as if considering drowning himself in it. So it’s Anathema who puts down her encyclopedia of spells, gets Newt up to speed and hosts subsequent discussion.

“My best guess is that whatever happened ripped the demonic element away from Crowley leaving the ‘human-ish’ parts behind. That’s why his aura has gone all....” she sneaks a look at Aziraphale and searches for an unthreatening adjective “...wobbly.” 

Newt is frowning, his glasses fogged from the steam of his cocoa. “But who did that to him? And why? And how?” he gives a shifty-eyed look towards Aziraphale “And how do we know if they’re after him too?” 

These worries haven't registered with the Angel. He is processing his one big worry which is, and always has been, Crowley. His body on autopilot Aziraphale takes a sip of cocoa. Between the rising steam and his gloomy expression, Newt thinks Aziraphale looks rather demon-like. Anathema knows what demons look like. 

Another sip of cocoa. Then cautiously, Aziraphale beings to theorize aloud. “We’re assuming...to put it in the most basic terms...that the occult element of Crowley has been ripped away, while the distinctly Crowley-ish part is still there. Am I correct?” 

“Essentially, yes.” 

Aziraphale’s mind is working through the rest of the implications faster than a speeding Bentey. “So Anthony _is_ Crowley and not some demented doppelganger?”

“Yes.” Anathema agrees again. 

Aziraphale raises his cocca as somelse might punch the air, a light rapidly returning to his eyes. 

“What about the memory loss?” asks Newt.

“That would be explained by this theory.” says Anathema. 

Aziraphale nods eagerly. “Anthony said he remembered Hamlet but didn’t know where he’d seen it.” And more, Anthony had positive associations with books but couldn’t remember Aziraphale, which would be because - 

“Six thousand years of memories wouldn’t fit inside the human psyche.” Anathema added, keeping pace with his deductions. For they share an elated smile. Then, just as rapidly the light fades from Aziraphale’s expression as he realises that without the demonic parts of Crowley, Anthony’s human mind will never be able to remember him properly. 

Newt is frowning at him with concern and Aziraphale realises he’s just spilled cocoa on his favourite waistcoat and there is no Crowley to fix it for him. He daubs helplessly at the stain until Anathema whisks the waistcoat from him testifying to the merits of laundry powder. This leaves Aziraphale and Newt alone in the living room for several minutes. The Angel feels chill without the accustomed layer of clothing. Newt smiles at him. 

“Got any favourite foods? I was thinking maybe a curry tomorrow night but happy to try anything.” 

Food has never been less interesting to Aziraphale then it is right now. He can’t bring himself to reply. He looks down instead to where he can see a little chocolatey stain on the floorboards. The liquid is creeping into the grooves, flooding the tiny dust trench, drowning any bookworms or dust bunnies that might be living in the floor of the old house. 

“I’m sorry.” he says aloud because someone ought to be sorry and he’s got the current monopoly on melancholy. 

Anathema returns empty handed sending a further thrill of unhappiness through Aziraphale. 

“Is it salvageable?” 

The waistcoat has grown in importance every second he’s been parted from it. He feels it would drive to distraction if the stain were a permanent blot. 

Anathema shrugs. “I’ve left it to soak. We’ll have to wait and see.”

There’s a second question, his real question on the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue that he’s not sure he’s brave enough to ask because he’d rather live with an non-answer than a no. 

“Is there a cure for Crowley?” he gapes trying to take back the words but Anathema is already answering him. 

“An aura isn’t physical object, it’s not even a chemical, so physical laws don’t apply. It’s still only a working theory but…”

Even sitting as he is Aziraphale can feel his knees going wobbly. It’s clear Anathema can tell from the way she dances around an answer.

“Explain it to me like I’m stupid.”

“I don’t think that amount of demonic energy would just disappear. My guess is that’s it’s out there somewhere, lost and looking for a way to get back to him.”

**  
*********

Anathema offered Aziraphale the fold out couch when he first arrived at Jasmine Cottage. He’d tried to refuse on the basis that he wouldn’t need to sleep. That was until he realised Anathema knew that and she was giving him a place of his own in her house. She was making him welcome. Sure enough the couch had quickly become a convenient place to keep his books. Tonight, however, dressed in fluffy tartan pajamas Aziraphale tucks himself into bed. He’s forgotten to switch of the lights so he miracles them off. Then lies in the dark thinking of Tracy’s tarot reading. If he can’t find a cure for Crowley then what? Crowley will remain human. Live like a human, age and finally die like a human. He tosses and turns but Aziraphale doesn’t sleep. Perhaps he hasn’t the knack for it. Back in London he knows Crowley is sleeping like a human.


	20. Chapter 20

In Anthony’s dream it is the opening night of Hamlet all over again. It’s one of those dreams where you know something is what it is because your brain is telling you that it is, and not because the person, thing or place has any resemblance to a real world avatar. Anthony knows it’s the opening night of Hamlet but in his dream the whole thing takes place at the Globe Theatre sometime in the 1600s. And he’s playing Hamlet, he knows this because he’s dressed head to toe in black, from the tips of his pointed boots to the delicate cuffs of his doublet. 

Perhaps it’s one of those anxiety dreams like what Teri gets before opening nights because this time the play isn’t going down well. He can count on one hand the number of people in the audience, and that’s including William Shakespeare and a woman trying to sell snacks. Anthony’s feet steer him towards the only member of the audience who appears to be enjoying the show. In the way that dreams do someone else is now on stage reading Hamlet's lines, Richard Burbage his brain supplies. Then the alone audience member becomes a pale figure who resolves himself into Mr Fell. He’s eating grapes. 

Mr Fell turns to Anthony with a smile, offering him a glass of bubbly. This is the opening night of Hamlet as he, the waking Anthony, remembers it. The feeling of familiarity doesn’t last long. Mr Fell is leaning towards him and Anthony realises, that despite the period costume he’s wearing his usual sunglasses. 

“May I?” Mr Fell asks, indicating Anthony’s glasses. 

Anthony doesn’t hear his own response but it must be a yes because Mr Fell is sliding the glasses from his face. He feels the soft brush of Mr Fell’s fingertips across his cheekbones. Then Mr Fell is neatly folding the glasses away, taking more care with them than Anthony ever has. Anthony glances down, shy without his sunglasses to shield him from Mr Fell gaze. Unbidden Anita’s voice, in director mode, echos in Anthony’s mind, “Only get close to someone on stage if you want to fight them or fuck them.” Anthony can feel the heat rising in his face, Mr Fell is looking him dead in the eye with an intensity that he finds disarmingly attractive. 

“Anthony, what happened to you?” 

I know him, he thinks as inspiration strikes. I know this man from before the crash. “Car crash. Knocked my memories clean out of my brain.” 

“All your memories?” 

“Some of them, yeah.” 

Anthony heart is racing and his mind is rapid-firing with connections. We are godfathers _together_ , he brings me flowers on opening night and he looks at me like _that._ He takes a sip of bubbly, then another, then drains the glass. 

“Can I take a guess at something and you’ll forgive me if I get it wrong?” 

Mr Fell is still looking him in the eye and sitting close enough to touch. There’s a small frown between his eyebrows and a puzzled, sad smile on his face that Anthony wants rather desperately to be rid of. 

“I forgive you.” 

Taking the biggest risk he can remember, perhaps the biggest risk of his life, Anthony leans in until his mouth is inches away from the other man’s and his intention couldn’t be clearer. Mr Fell’s soft intake of breath sends shivers up his spine. 

“May I temp you?” Anthony whispers.

“Please.”

And like that they’re kissing and it is divine. In the end Anthony cannot be sure who made the first move. They kiss soft and slow and sweet and it isn’t Anthony who pulls back. Disappointment rises sharply in him but he’s appeased by the pleasantly rumpled look on Mr Fell. 

“That was a lovely surprise. But we should talk about what happened to you first my dear, don’t you agree?”

Anthony blinks slowly, he wants to say something flirty about mouths and the best use for them but his head is spinning much too pleasantly. 

“Oh, my dear. What happened to your eyes?” 

“Nothing. Just normal eyes. Aren’t they? Is there something weird about my eyes?” Anthony looks around self-consciously for a reflective surface. Mr Fell takes both his hands in a comforting hold. 

“Crowley, what do you remember about Armageddon?” 

“What is that...a music festival?” 

Mr Fell looks surprised? Hurt? Shocked? He doesn’t let go of Anthony’s hands but the anxiety is building in Fell’s voice he continues the line of questioning. “Do you remember you’re a demon?” 

Anthony blinks his normal human eyes and his dream self registers this as odd without explaining why. 

“Is demon code for something?” 

Now Mr Fell is looking at him with real, sharp alarm which is taking the fast lane towards fear. Anthony doesn’t know how to comfort him, he doesn’t know anything about him. 

“I don’t even remember your name.” 

Mr Fell flounders under the weight of this realisation. He opens his mouth to speak but words, for once, fail him. He’s holding onto Anthony’s hands like a man drowning. Anthony twitches in his sleep. He limply raises a hand as if to swat an invisible fly. Invisible as there are no flies or mosquitoes in Anthony’s flat, his rather vicious venus flytrap has long since seen to that. In the dream Anthony babbles hoping to stumble onto the right thing to say.

“I know I like you. I feel safe around you.” It’s not helping, it might even be making it worse. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you. But that doesn’t mea-”

“But you remember Eden...?”

What was Eden, a bar they frequented together? Anthony shakes his head. 

“You remember nothing?”

“But this is good, I mean, you’re here now. Why don’t you give me a run down on the basics?” he licks his lips, he should check they’re actually a couple before continuing “And we’re...we’re a...aren’t we?”

“You’re my best friend.”

Oh shit. “I’m sorry about the, aha, the kiss then.”

“Please don’t be sorry.” tears shine in Mr Fell’s eyes as he says, “I’ve been waiting for you to kiss me since 1941.” 

Mr Fell takes a hand back from Anthony to wipe the tears away. He is so sweet and funny and sad that Anthony has to kiss him again. Mr Fell stops him gently, his fingers on Anthony’s lips.

“My dear, we need to talk.”

Anthony tops off both their drinks, quite unable to hide the sting of rejection. Already decently tipsy he’d rather head towards drunk with the sad turn the evening has taken. 

“I would very much _like_ to kiss you, but- ”

Anthony shrugs, as if to say “I don’t care” which to be fair would have worked on most people. Mr Fell correctly translates Anthony’s shrug as “I care a shit ton, don’t make me talk about my feelings.” Anthony has even put his glasses back on. 

“The thing is, my dear, it’s very complicated. It’s always been complicated.”

Anthony takes yet another swig of champagne. “So give me the load down. Hit me with it.” 

So Mr Fell sits a little straighter, a little less tipsily and begins. 

“It all began, well, in the beginning, in Eden...”

Anthony can feel wakefulness tugging at him, he rolls onto his belly and buries his face in his pillow. The dream is already fragmenting and he is simultaneously aware of the softness of his pillow and the sound of Mr Fell’s voice. As he wriggles deeper under the covers he is struck with the half-awake desire to return to the dream and his dream self’s growing frustration at Mr Fell’s fanciful story. Anthony feels his irritation grow to anger as Mr Fell says “I was on technically apple tree duty and you were a snake at the time ...” 

Anthony wakes up with a headache so intense he stumbles half-blinded to the bathroom and vomits into the sink. It’s not until many minutes later, as he presses he forehead to the cool bathroom mirror, that the dream returns to him. It’s half-formed, just a memory and a feeling. A single image of Mr Fell clicking his fingers in Anthony’s face and the feeling of a half finished conversation.


	21. Chapter 21

The last time Anthony dropped by the Bookshop oh-so-casually because he just-happened-to-be-in-the-area it was closed. Definitely closed. When he went knocking on neighbours doors his questions were answered with a vague “Mr Fell is on holiday” and returning nobody knows when. As a direct consequence Anthony spent the last week with Hozier on blast to patch his wounded feelings. Right now Anthony is sitting in the theatre foyer letting a takeaway coffee go cold in his hand. 

He arrived early and he’ll play it off as wanting back in Anita’s good books if pressed. In reality he’s planning to head Mo off as he arrives so they can have a “serious conversation.” Teri had bullied him into it over lunch the day before. She didn’t beat about the bush, the moment Anthony put his menu down she’d begun quizzing him about Mo. Ever since karaoke night things had been strained between the two of them and in Teri’s words they were both “being super obvious about it”. She was annoyingly right, of course. They’d talked through the details over hot vinegar chips and mushy peas. Each left with a promise to the other, they’d shaken hands on it, Teri laughing, Anthony serious. Anthony had promised to clear the air with Mo if Teri promised to interrupt when it got awkward. 

Currently he’s composing a “serious conversation” in his head, alternately offering himself the best and worst possible outcomes. The facts, as he understands them, stand thus, he and Mo still flirt like they’re it’s a competition. However the physical side of their relationship - such as it was physical, such as it was a relationship - has dropped away completely. For the past several weeks Anthony’s been oddly grateful. He’s had enough to think about between the bad-brain-thing and the Angel-thing without worrying he might be sending mixed messages with a mistimed hug. And while Anthony is pretty certain Mo is the type who’d salvage a friendship from the wreckage of a romance he can’t be sure he is as generous with his own heart. 

Besides, working on the show together, he and Mo are practically living in each others pockets. Anthony doesn’t want to risk getting involved with someone in the cast. If it went pear shaped before closing night he’d be forced to spend the next several weeks in close proximity to the guy that broke his heart. So there, _that’s_ something he can promise himself and Teri if he has to. No shenanigans until closing night. With Mo giving him the cold shoulder it’ll be an easy promise to keep. Anthony takes a sip of cold coffee and finds it’s not to his taste. He’d only really ordered a black coffee for the aesthetic, he was really in the mood for something served with marshmallows. But even the bitterest of coffee couldn’t distract him from the thought knocking on the door of his mind. 

I’m a bad person, he thinks, if it  _ does _ go pear-shaped, down-like-a-lead-balloon and all that, would I really cut Mo out? Anthony had been getting a taste of that behavior all week from Mr Fell and he was miserable about it. Was he really prepared to inflict that on another person? Anthony jumps guiltily at the sight of Moses crossing the foyer, he’d been so wrapped up in his thoughts he’d nearly missed him. Mo is nearly at the stairs, about disappear into the crowded dressing room and Anthony is about to miss the chance for a quiet word. The rim of his coffee cup resting on his lower lip Anthony watches, waiting for the chance to pass. He takes a sip of his lukewarm coffee, the bitterness in his gut, nothing to do with the beverage. If he’d missed Mo completely fate would have taken the “serious conversation” out of his hands without breaking his word to Teri. 

And yet as Anthony takes another sip of coffee, trying to convince himself he can taste the notes of blueberries the barista said she was extracting, he realises it might all be cowardice. Nothing of any real consequence had happened between him and Mo, yet here he was, mentally backing himself into a corner. He was good at it. It was habit. He could wait and wait and when the show ends never see Mo again, all to avoid heartbreak that might never happen. Where was the sense in that? 

Anthony leaps to his feet, time to make good on yesterday’s promise. 

“Hey, Mo. Can I...do you have a minute?”

Moses, halfway up the dressing room steps, looks surprised as Anthony steps out of his secluded corner. 

“You’re early.” early for Anthony, who while never being technically late is usually last through the door. 

“Walk around the block?” Anthony offers amiably.

*******

They walk for a few minutes in tense silence, tense for Anthony anyway. Every time he opens his mouth something excuses him from speaking. Like, just now he’s noticed the nice even pace they’re walking at, in sync with every step and he doesn’t want to spoil it. It’s with the phantom of Teri’s disapproving tone echoing in his mind, Anthony opens his mouth and an apology tumbles out. 

“I’m sorry if I upset you that night I stayed over. I shouldn’t have tried anything on.”

Mo falters in his stride then rapidly picks up the pace realising he’s been ambushed into having the “serious conversation” they’ve both been avoiding. Anthony drinks the dregs of his miserably cold coffee, giving Mo a chance to collect his thoughts. One thing Anthony has noticed about Mo is he doesn’t dance around anything for too long. It may not be coy or tempting or seductive but it’s damned likeable. 

“I’m not upset exactly, Anthony. I’ll take it as a compliment.” Mo shrugs. “I’m just after something a bit more serious than a one night stand.”

“I didn’t know that.” How could he have known that? Mo didn’t tell him. He’d made his own assumptions. The loudest assumption went along the lines of “I am an unsexy, unattractive worm and no one wants to date me.”

Now Mo is talking he doesn’t stop. “I’ve been there. One night stands with friends. It’s messy. But I do like you Anthony. I wasn’t going to say anything until the show was over then when it...if it blew up…less mess.”

Anthony nods, it’s his own logic after all. “Who says it’d be a mess?” 

“It’s all or nothing with me. I’m not going to see you on the side. So.” he throws the words away leaving only a touch of bitterness in the air. And now Mo is waiting for a response that isn’t forthcoming, Anthony opens his mouth hoping a response will fall out. 

“Ergk. Yup. Sounds good.”

Mo looks lost at this non starter answer, he takes a deep, patient breath. “What do you want Anthony?” 

Anthony has to admit that he’s never asked himself that question quite so directly. He wants his memories back, obviously. He wants Mr Fell to ring him back. He’s hoping the performance will go really well tonight. When he has some free time he wants to experiment with drag. For tonight he doesn’t want to slip on stage blood and fuck up the swordfight. And there’s a strand of English Rose he’d like to plant in a window box. He wants to ride his motorbike. But none of this is important right this minute because Mo’s real question is “What _ type of relationship _ do you want Anthony?” and that question is still hanging, unanswered, in the air between them. 

Anthony takes off his sunglasses so he can look Mo honestly in the face. “I’m not seeing anybody.”

“Not that guy you went home with opening night? Looked like you were getting on.”

Anthony blinks, Mo means Mr Fell. It’s Anthony’s pride that stops him giving the full explanation. He’d much rather be the cool guy getting laid, than the guy who’d lolled around his flat all week listening to love songs and pining after a man he’d only had two conversations with. A man who is not interested and avoiding him. 

“We’re not dating.” 

“You seemed to be getting on so well, I thought...old flame.”

Honestly creeps up in Anthony again, Mr Fell probably is an ex and that needs some explaining. 

“It wasn’t nothing. But it’s not anything now. I’m pretty darn single, like a loser.” he gives Mo a grin full of teeth and self-deprecation. 

Mo smiles back, warmly and Anthony feels it all the way down to his toes. By now they’ve done a full circle of the block and found themselves outside the big double doors to the theatre foyer. Time to make a decision. Anthony takes a breath and choose his words carefully. 

“And who said I’m not here for the long haul? I didn’t.” Anthony leans in close, “So what if we make a mess? Can’t we see where it goes?” he gives Moses a shy kiss on the cheek and saunters back towards the theatre doors. 

Anthony slips his sunglasses back on, heart racing, grinning from ear to ear. He counts to three before he hears Mo running to catch up. Then he feels the heat of the solid, friendly body behind him. Anthony turns, locking eyes with Mo, a kissable distance from his face. His breath quickens, his body thrills to his bones. Anthony wishes he hadn’t put his sunglasses back on, sunglasses get in the way of a good snog. He startles at the sound of a motorbike. Then he and Mo turning in unison to see Teri arriving, she is early as promised, in case their conversation ended in awkward tragedy. The moment of potential held tense between them bursts like a soap bubble and is gone. 


End file.
